Brothers Until the End
by Super Vanilla Bear
Summary: Now complete! A series of one-shots in which Dean is sick and/or hurt. Prompts and ideas come from you guys!
1. Requests

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

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I had the most brilliant idea! I LOVE Dean sick fics so much that I've decided to stop writing ones I want to see and have YOU GUYS decide what you want ME to write! I'm open for anything (except slash), and I think it would be really neat to see what prompts you guys can come up with and how I can write them.

Here are a few ground rules:

1\. Please do NOT suggest any sort of slash story! I will NOT write it.

2\. The whole premise of this is to have Dean be sick and have Sam, Cas, Bobby, John, etc. take care of him (or no one knows, because, let's face it, Dean is like that). That being said, please don't suggest fics where said characters above besides Dean are ill. However, I will write ones where Dean and _someone_ else is sick, whether it be Sam or Cas or whoever.

3\. All plots are accepted and welcomed. The more details you can give me on what you want, the better I can write it. Please list the illness and characters you want featured within the one-shot. So this can be as simple as: Dean has the stomach flu, and Sam helps him through it. But, I'd like something more descriptive than that because it's very broad and vague. Remember, these are your requests, so, the more details you can give me, the more I can write to your liking.

4\. You can submit as many requests as you want, but I'll be the one to choose which I want to write about. If you have one you really want me to do, you can put an asterisk (*) or something along those lines to point out that is the request you would like to see written the most. I may write multiple stemming off of one person's request, but I promise I will get to yours eventually. It will just take time. I'm not even sure how many requests I want to take just yet, but I'm pretty sure it'll be between ten and thirty-ish.

5\. Please be sure to tell me the time frame you would like, such as wee!chesters, teen!chesters, season two, Demon!Dean, season six with some Robo!Sam, etc.

6\. To submit your request, please leave a review of a private message. Either way is fine.

7\. I would be thankful for feedback on the requests I write, so please review on the actual story content itself. =)

Does anyone like this idea? I'll remove it entirely if no one likes it. I'm just trying to see if it's something people are interested in.

Alright, I'm sure you guys are tired of reading this.

Let the requesting begin, as well as the reviewing!

SVB

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Here is an example that I have written. This is actually taken from another set of sick!Dean fics that I wrote previously, but that idea fell quickly through the cracks. I actually get more inspiration from other peoples' prompts instead of my own. I added this to the first chapter with the rules because a reviewer informed me that I have broken community rules. In order to not have this story potentially removed, I have placed in an actual one-shot.

This is taken from "Big Brothers Need Hugs Too." You can check it out on my profile!

I hope you enjoy!

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Sam can think of a thousand times that Dean has helped him in his life. From walking him back and forth to school everyday to packing his lunch to drawing up his baths at night, Dean has always been the one constant thing Sam can count on. Dad told him once, a few years before he passed, that a five-year-old Dean crawled into the crib with a not yet one-year-old Sam because his baby brother was screaming his head off. Then, there was the time when Sam broke his arm, and Dean carried him to the hospital while Dad was on a hunt. Dad says Dean never hesitated when it came to taking care of him. Never.

He wants to be the figure in Dean's life that he knows he can always depend on. Their relationship has previously been described as "sickeningly co-dependent," but, nine out of ten times, it is Dean who ends up comforting him instead of the other way around. Take last night for example. The now twenty-three year old version of Sam Winchester had a nightmare about Jess and woke up with tears streaming down his cheeks. Dean did what any other big brother on the planet would do and held him and whispered sweet nothings and made false promises until his baby brother fell back asleep in his arms.

See, that's what Sam wants to be.

And, today, he figures he'll get his chance to prove that he is a good brother to Dean.

This morning, Dean woke up with a nasty cough and a nose that decided it would be humorous to transition between stuffed up and runny every two minutes. He was running a slight fever that was just enough to make him uncomfortable and miserable, but not enough to knock him flat on his ass. So, being the trooper he is, he went on with his day like normal. Until he nearly ran his baby into a tree, that is.

Sam took over driving about an hour ago, which Dean didn't like one bit. Complained that Sam was just being a pain in the ass little brother and said he was fine. Typical Dean. Now, Dean is asleep in the passenger seat, curled up underneath the blanket they keep in the trunk, snot bubbles popping every few seconds through congested snores. There's a deep hue of red spreading across his cheeks, and purple smudges accent exhaustion underneath his eyes. Sam smiles, even though he does feel bad for his brother, but he knows it's his one chance to take care of Dean.

He pulls into the nearest hotel, which happens to, thankfully, be a nicer one than they are used to. Quickly, he checks them in before carrying their bags in. Next event is to wake up his probably insanely cranky brother. He carefully opens the door, and that shakes Dean awake. He gazes up at Sam and scowls, rubbing his hand underneath his nose, but he doesn't say anything. Yet.

"C'mon, bro." Sam grabs his elbow and keeps his hold, even though Dean huffs and tries to push him away.

"Time's it?" His voice is wrecked and barely audible, not to mention rattled with congestion.

"Almost two," he informs as he ushers Dean inside. He's shivering like crazy in the late April sun, which lets Sam know that his brother's fever has just risen. Not wanting to bother with showers, especially since he and Dean both took one this morning, he lets Dean sit down on the bed furthest from the door. Sam pulls out his brother's comfiest sweatpants and his own hoodie before handing them to Dean, who just strips in the middle of the room before collapsing on top of the covers, trying his hardest to stifle his coughs and sniffles.

Sam's next task is to get some medicine in his reluctant brother. Dean Winchester doesn't enjoy showing weakness, so getting him to swallow Nyquil is next to impossible. He tries to be methodical in his approaches to taking care of him, especially since Dean rarely gets sick. When he does, it has a habit of spinning out of control fast, so Sam is glad they caught it early. Better late than never.

"Dean," he says quietly. "You gotta take some medicine."

"Hrmph…" is the only response he receives. Dean has his face buried into the pillow, his arms bundled beneath it. His left foot twitches, and his breathing is deep. He must have already been nearly asleep, Sam decides. He rolls Dean on to his back and has him sit up to get the meds down the hatch. Sam also doesn't harass him about getting under the comforter because he knows it will just make Dean angry. His brother needs sleep, and that would be in the way of what he wants. Instead, he brings in the cover he was using earlier from the Impala and drapes it over the shorter Winchester's dozing form.

The younger Winchester grins. Well, he did it, even though he's sure Dean will pitch a fit whenever he's feeling up to it. He has no idea how his brother can breathe through a stuffy nose while he's laying on his stomach, and the redness of his face is really bothering him. Sam tiptoes on to the other side of the mattress before letting himself sink in next to his big brother as carefully as he can. This time, he rolls Dean on to his side to where he's facing away from Sam. He can already hear the congestion subsiding a bit.

Sam can think of a thousand times Dean has helped him in his life. From tying his shoes to making him dinner to cuddling him when he's sick, Dean has always been there. As Sam wraps his arms around Dean's waist and tries to hide his bright grin as his big brother snuggles his back into his chest, he knows he wants to always be there for him, too. That's what being brothers is all about.

Because big brothers need hugs too.

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**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading, and please continue submitting requests!


	2. SuperWhoLockedGirl53

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Hello, all! This is the first request I have gotten, and it shall be the first one I write. As for titles of chapters, I am just going to put the penname of whomever I am writing the one-shot for, but, obviously, it would be great if everyone read them and gave me their opinions. Like I said, I'm just trying this idea out, and if you have any opinions at all, I am open to them.

This prompt is from SuperWhoLockedGirl53. She requested a teen!chester story.

"Dean has been feeling off for a while. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but he was tired all the time and even feeling dizzy sometimes. Not that Sam needed to know. Anyways, Sam ends up finding out and helping him as he gets worse (passing out, vomiting, etc.) And it's just really cute and possibly make me cry (if I cry, you get extra points!)"

I will try my best to make you cry, but no promises! =)

Dean is 19, and Sam is 15.

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SuperWhoLockedGirl53

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_November 1, 1998_

Dad's been gone for two months now.

Three phone calls. That's all Dean has received. The last phone call was nearly three weeks ago, and he really wonders if he should be freaking out. Dad told him not to worry; the job was just taking a lot longer than he and Bobby hoped. So, he's taken quite a liking to washing the dishes thoroughly enough that Sam can't tell they've ran out of soap long ago. His little brother doesn't need to know that his job at the garage has let him go or that he's been so exhausted that he can barely see straight or that tomorrow is the fifteenth anniversary of Mom's death.

Though he's sure Sam already knows that one.

He continues scrubbing the bowl that Sam used for cereal this morning with a dingy sponge. The hot water singes his skin, and he winces. Dean drops it in the sink, uses his thumb and index finger to pinch the bridge of his nose, and fights off the new wave of dizziness. These dizzy spells are pissing him off with their increasing intensity and frequency. He contemplates telling Dad, Bobby, or Sam, but there's no reason to. He'd just bother them, and that's the last thing he wants to do.

Sam's stressed over his freshman year of high school; girls and grades are all that's on his mind. Dad's still searching for the demon that killed Mom and is so angry half the time that neither Dean nor Sam can ever get a word in. That leaves Dean to wake Sam up, take him to school in the Impala, do the household chores, cook, clean, and make sure Sam is, overall, taken care of. And, truth be told, he doesn't mind.

Except when he feels like this.

He's been so dizzy. He can't get out of bed without nearly falling over and certainly can't walk in a straight line to save his life. It's like he's constantly and chronically drunk. He's had a few sips of alcohol in his life; it's hard not to when Dad's under the influence every time he seems them. However, at nineteen and as the caretaker of the family, he can't afford both mentally and physically to get plastered. It's hard enough as it is.

It feels like ocean waves are crashing into his skull, threatening to knock him over with each breath. He doesn't sleep well. When he lies down, his mind swims, and it forces him to stand again. Insomnia. It happens around this time of year. He can still remember Dad forcing a baby Sam into his arms like it was literally yesterday.

"_Now, Dean. Go!"_

He forgets the dishes and lets himself slide to the floor, resting against the kitchen cabinets. Puts aching head in his hands. Blinks away the tears. Tugs on his blond hair. He feels like a deflated balloon. Tears are threatening to spill over his cheeks, and he sniffles. He has to keep it together, at least until Sam goes to bed. Dean sits on the floor like that, partly out of pity for himself but also partly due not being sure if he can get up on his own.

Dean hears the front door click open, and his eyes widen. He tries to stand up, pushing himself to his knees and pulling up on the countertop, but he falls right on his ass. Shit. He tries again, but it's too late. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his little brother, all six feet of him, glaring right at him.

"Are you okay?" is the first inquiry that leaves Sam's mouth. Dean rolls his eyes, a few tears dripping down his face. He immediately wipes them away. He feels stupid. So stupid. He's so much of a baby that he's sad about missing someone who died when he was four and now he's crying. His cheeks redden, and his face heats up. Dean feels Sam touch his shoulders, and he flinches, not exactly ready for or wanting physical contact at the moment.

Sam grabs him by his torso and hoists him into standing position. Dean collapses into his brother's chest and lays his head there. The dizziness is clouding his vision, and he needs to just sit for a second. He feels Sam wrap his arms around him. He feels close. For the first time in years, he feels like Sam is actually here as opposed to doing other "teenagey" things. He is constantly studying, talking on the pay phone and using their laundry quarters, going to the movies with friends courtesy of Dean's own money, and slamming the door closed as loudly as he can muster. His brother is fifteen; he doesn't know what it feels like to be fifteen, but he assumes Sam is playing the role correctly.

Vomit bubbles up his throat. He pushes himself away from Sam and half-runs to the sink. Dean spews a gob of yellowish phlegm; he hasn't really eaten in weeks. Doesn't have enough money to feed himself. More tears. Trembling. Sobs. Heaving. He can't believe he's losing it all right in front of his brother. He's supposed to be protecting Sam, not showing him all the damned vulnerability. He flinches away from his brother once again, but Sam doesn't let him go.

"Dean, shh... It's okay, man."

He's rubbing circles on his back, something Dean himself does when the roles are reversed. Dean would prefer to die a horrible painful death with a lack of pie and cheeseburgers than throw this massive pity party in front of Sam. His muscles spasm, and the corners of his mouth twitch as he upheaves more phlegm. He wishes Sam wasn't home. He can handle this himself. He doesn't need anyone else here with him. Dean's managed fine on his own for the last fifteen years.

"You ready to tell me what's going on?" Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head and begins to slide to the floor again, but Sam catches him. He drags him into their shared bedroom and practically tosses Dean on to his bed. He grabs a new t-shirt that Dean knows is a size too big at this point, shucks off his sweaty one, and helps him into it. The older Winchester lays back against the flat pillows, cradling his head in his hands once more. He listens to Sam rummage around in the bathroom.

He comes back with a wet washcloth and places it on Dean's forehead.

"Dean, c'mon. You gotta talk to me."

He rolls over and crosses his arms. Goosebumps form, as well as more tears.

"Dean," Sam coaxes once more.

He doesn't want to talk. It's just a stupid day. A dumb, idiotic waste of his life. Why should he keep thinking about it? Dad hunts for the demon everyday; shouldn't he just forget? He shuts Sam out and tries to think of something pleasant. His mind is haunted by the image of his mother burning on the ceiling and Dad holding him and his brother while a part of their house collapsed in flames. He shuts his eyes even tighter.

Sam grabs the comforter off his bed and places it over Dean.

He won't talk.

He never does.

"It's okay, Dean. I miss her too."

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**Author's Note: **Well, SuperWhoLockedGirl53, how was that? I'm terribly sorry if it you dislike or hate it in anyway. If you want, I can try again with a bit of a different outlook. What did everyone else think? Do you guys like this idea of giving me prompts and me writing them? Please just let me know what you all think. Thank you so much for reading, and please remember to leave your requests and review! =)


	3. mhank

**Author's Note: **I, unfortunately, do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

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Thank you for all of your positive feedback! I have decided to leave the story up since I have gotten a few requests already, which I honestly wasn't expecting. So, long story short, I just wanted to tell you guys that your opinions and reviews mean the world to me!

This one-shot is for mhank, who gave me two prompts to choose from. For right now, I'm only going to write one to get to others who haven't had one written for them, but I promise I will get back around to the next prompt again once I finish with my others or if I have some free time.

"Dean gets the flu, Sam has to take a case, and human/Cas is the only one around to try to take care of him. Cas fumbles with the "correct" human ways to take care of a sick friend and Dean gets irritated or thinks it is the funniest thing he has ever seen."

I chose this one because I wanted to write something a bit out of my element; I haven't written too many Dean and Cas fics before. It will be a different experience that I am looking forward to, but I honestly had such a hard time choosing which one to write. Fair warning, though, my attempt at Cas's personality may not be the best, so I apologize in advance if I totally mess up his character or make him seem not Cas-like. He's more difficult to write for than I realized.

This story is set in season nine, some few weeks before Kevin's death. Cas is staying with Sam and Dean for now.

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mhank

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_December 5, 2013_

It hasn't stopped snowing.

There's at least a foot on the ground outside the bunker.

Cas has never touched snow. He's managed to fly above it for eons. It "freaks him out," as Dean puts it. Sure, he was there when God created it, but the white fluffiness of it reminds him all too much of the fragility of humans. These are creatures that have to pee into a bowl and remember to flush, brush their teeth twice a day with some minty stuff, and deal with something his friends call "morning wood" every single time he awakens.

Said creatures also tend to get sick. Cas had his first cold last week, which he quickly found out meant he couldn't stop coughing, was terribly congested, and had a jackhammering headache. It took him what felt like centuries before he felt well enough to remove himself from bed. Now, Sam says it's something called "flu season," a few months entirely dedicated toward those who catch influenza. It tends to happen during the winter, and it tends to hit a man named Dean Winchester pretty hard.

Dean had a fever all yesterday, even though he refused to admit it. Something about being "too amazing" to fall ill. Sam has been out of town on a hunt for over three days now, and Dean is continuing to get crankier and fussier. Cas tried to cool him down with a washcloth like he had seen Sam do, and that helped Dean sleep a bit longer. He tried ibuprofen and Nyquil near midnight, and that made Dean "loopy and drugged."

Needless to say, the newly human Cas needs some different tricks to deal with his incapacitated best friend.

He pads down the hallway to Dean's room, his red jacket sagging off his shoulders, and socked feet gliding on the concrete. He sniffles, a side effect of his own sickness, and quietly knocks on the door. No one answers, typical, and he enters. The eldest Winchester wearing black sweatpants with no shirt or socks on and snot bubbles blowing out his nose is a sight for sore eyes. A fan is circulating air in the confined space, and Cas notices himself that it's "stuffy" in here.

Cas places a hand on Dean's forehead and cringes. Way too hot. Dean snores through the touch. There has to be a way to cool him down that he hasn't thought of. The band of his sweatpants is visibly soaked through with sweat, and a puddle of the salty liquid has built itself around Dean's head. Cas has seen Dean sick before, a cold here and there and once bronchitis, but never like this. "The flu," as Sam calls it, seems to be a rather negative experience.

"Dean, wake up. You must take more medicine."

The sick man growls, peaking one sore eye open to look up at Cas. "Bite me."

Cas shakes his head. "I will not...bite you."

Dean rolls his eyes. "It's an expression, jackass. Leave me alone."

See what Cas means about cranky?

"Your brother put me in charge, so I say you must take the medicine he left for you."

Of course Sam would put a kitten in charge of him. Yes, he has a fever and feels like shit three times rolled over, but this doesn't mean he can't take care of himself. He stretches, letting some of the knots out of his aching limbs. He doesn't want to move, but Cas is going to make him. Dean is starting to wonder if this angel could potentially be worse at mother henning than Sam.

Dean takes the medicine without another word and rolls back over. He's snoring within seconds.

Cas smiles, feeling like he's won the battle for the first time.

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"Sammy!"

The sharp and sudden cry breaks Cas out of his sleep. He scrubs a numb hand down his stubbly cheek and wipes his bleary eyes. Without thinking, he jumps and runs down the hall to Dean's room, panic rising in his throat so high that it makes his stomach queasy. Dean is still laying down in bed, but this time he's curled into a ball with tears streaming down his flushed face. He's shouting for his brother over and over again. Cas puts a hand on his warm back and feels him trembling with great intensity.

"Dean, your brother is not here."

The elder Winchester scrunches his eyebrows. "What...What do you mean?"

"He left three days ago, Dean. It's just me and you. Or rather 'you and I' if you want to be grammatically correct."

"No," Dean says. "I need Sammy, not you."

Cas can't tell if he's cranky anymore, but, by the tone of his voice, he would assume he's slightly annoyed. However, Cas can't see past the tears. He's never once seen Dean cry. In the time he's known him, he's returned from both Hell and Purgatory, broken his leg, and lost his brother several times. How has he never seen him cry like this? Dean's eyes are swollen and puffy, and he seems to be shutting down little by little.

How should he handle a crying, very ill human?

Cas actually stops to think for a moment. He could throw Dean in the snow to lower his fever, but that would probably just make him worse. He could make more cans of soup and pray that he actually eats it this time, but the chances of that are slim to none. He once heard Sam talking about how Dean threw him into a bathtub full of ice when he was undergoing the trials and his fever spiked too high. Cas grabs the thermometer, pops in Dean's mouth, and waits for the beeps.

"103.4. I would say it's safe enough for that ice bath."

"The hell are you talkin' about?" Dean slurs. "Cas, where's Sammy?"

"I already told you, Dean. He's on a hunt; he won't be home until tonight."

Cas somehow hoists Dean out of bed and drags him into the shower. It isn't easy considering he himself is now human, is something like two or three inches shorter than Dean, and his chest still hurts. He doesn't bother to fill the tub since he's worried about time at the moment, so he just turns the water on as cold as it can go, strips Dean into just his boxers, and shoves him in there. He sits on the toilet seat and closes his eyes, holding his aching head in his hands; the ill man howls for his little brother.

Cas wishes he could help.

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When Sam arrives at the bunker, the first thing he notices is his brother curled on top of the ex-angel's chest on the leather couch. It's a scrunched, tight space with Cas teetering toward falling of the edge, his hand cascading the hardwood ground below. Dean is snoring. There are deep, dark purple smudges beneath his eyes, and his cheeks are flushed red. Sam can tell, just by looking at him, that Dean is nowhere near done with this illness.

He smiles, flips open his cell phone to snap a quick picture, and then goes to wake both Cas and Dean up. He removes the heated blanket since he sees Cas sweating and shakes both of their shoulders. The newly human angel wakes up slowly with a barking, nasty cough, followed by Dean, who is short of breath and wheezing every few seconds. Sam can't help but shake his head, knowing full well that Cas is probably sick again, and Dean is going to get pneumonia.

"You bring the pie, S'mmy?"

Sam shakes his head with a breathy laugh.

Still, though, it feels nice to be home.

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Cas is sprawled out on the couch.

He's listening to Sam type on his computer and flip through the pages of textbooks. He's been laying here for ages, but he doesn't have the strength or energy to move. "The flu" apparently likes to strike everyone in a household, including even Sam and Kevin. Dean's quickly went from just "the flu" to pneumonia, which Sam had warned him about. Cas can't help but sigh as he crosses his arms over his chest and shuts his eyes; why does he feel like such a failure.

"Cas?"

He opens his sore eyes to see Dean Winchester hovering above him. His voice is rasping and hoarse, and there's a dark blue blanket draped over his shoulders. He's rocking some spectacular bedhead and hasn't worn street clothes in over a week. Cas can tell by looking him over that he still isn't one hundred percent, and the fever is still there, but he doesn't need anymore cold showers, either. He guesses some progress has been made.

"Yes, Dean?"

"I...uh...just wanted to say, y'know, thanks for helping me earlier. I know I'm not the most cooperative person when I'm sick."

Cas grins widely. "You're welcome, Dean."

The older Winchester shuffles off to bother his younger brother at the table.

He smiles when he hears Sam complaining to Dean about how terrible he still looks.

Cas is just happy he could help his best friend.

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**Author's Note: **I'm not really sure how this one turned out, but, hey, I tried. Thank you all so much for your requests! I hope you enjoyed this one-shot, mhank! Let me know what you guys think. Thank you again and please keep requesting and reviewing!


	4. BamaBelle2012

**Author's Note: **I don't own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

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Thank you all so much for the positive reviews! I have gotten many more to write, and I am super excited! I love writing sick!Dean; it's honestly a bit of an obsession. I will try to update this once a day, but I'm a freshman in college who's just struggling to survive, so I will go ahead and say upfront that I make no guarantees on when these will be posted. I am currently going in order of how they are submitted to me since I think that is the most fair. You know the rule: "First come, first served." I think of it like that.

This one-shot is for BamaBelle2012. She requested a fic from the latest episode!

"After meeting with Cain, Dean is sore and tired (of course Sam takes care of his brother). He spends most of the time in the bunker recovering from his ordeal and weighing out his options, meanwhile he develops flu like somethings, but brushes it off as stress, however his bruises are not healing like they should. Sam and Cas notice something is really wrong...

Truth be told, I love this request! I have been thinking about Dean!whump ever since I the episode on Tuesday. What is better than sick and hurt Dean?! Anyway, I decided to hurt Dean a bit more in this, especially since Cain knocked him around pretty nicely.

Speaking of Cain, does anyone else love Timothy Omundson as much as I do? That beard and hair is gorgeously amazing! I loved him ever since I saw him play Lassie on _Psych_. He seems to be getting a lot of positive reactions from the SPN fandom. I have a funny feeling Dean didn't actually kill him and that we will be seeing more of him. Maybe he'll even be a regular!

This is set directly after 10x14 "The Executioner's Song."

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BamaBelle2012

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_February 19, 2015_

Sam doesn't think Dean was joking about sleeping for four days. Not anymore, at least. He's barely seen his brother since Tuesday night, and it's almost eleven on Thursday evening. Sam's checked on him every hour on the hour just to make sure he's breathing. Dean's face is heavily bruised and has tiny cuts where shards of glass split open his skin. He's sporting a sprained wrist from punching Cain too hard and a definite broken collarbone from a boot heel. The younger Winchester adorned him with the sling from his wrenched shoulder from late last year.

He has never seen Dean so shaken up. Both of them have been through a lot, and even Dean dying and turning into a demon doesn't take the place of what Sam saw that night. After handing over the blade to Cas instead of Crowley, Dean practically collapsed into him. Tears soaked through his shirt within seconds; he never mentions, nor will he ever, that to anyone. It's a big deal when his strong, resilient older brother is hurt or emotional enough to cry.

Later that night, Cas came to the bunker with them. The angel helped assess the countless wounds. Dean was beyond broken. He was scared, trembling, and so unlike himself that Sam and Cas had no idea how to help the ailing man. They decided to help him shower, dress him in warm clothes that happened to be Sam's, and get him to bed as soon as possible.

Sam pokes open the door to Dean's bedroom once again. His brother is sleeping on his back due to his broken bone, a pillow underneath his elbow to help keep him from moving his shoulder, snoring slightly. He doesn't go all the way in the room, too afraid to wake Dean; he stands in the doorway with his arms crossed and wonders. What happened in there that freaked out his stoic brother that much? Did Cain say something to him?

He supposes he will have to wait until Dean wakes up for answers.

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Dean's been laying in his bed wide-awake for quite some time now. His shoulder is throbbing so intensely that he's sure he's going to puke. He doesn't have enough energy to sit up, and part of him hopes Sam will come in and check on him so he can get away from here. At least with Sam talking to him, he can get out of his out head.

Cain told him that he would kill Crowley, Cas, and Sam. He would succumb to the mark. He would lose everything he knows and loves. He can't. To be truthful, if Crowley kicked the bucket, whether it was due to him or not, he won't be that torn up. Cas's death would probably kill him. Sam's death...well, there's just no way. He's fought too long and too hard in keeping his brother alive that he would ever be able to do that, demon or not.

His eyes tear up. Dean wipes them away, but he can't escape this sinking feeling. His heart is hammering into his chest, and he clenches his hands just to make sure he's actually here. He can't kill Sammy. He won't. He'll find a way to kill himself; he can't cause any harm to anyone, not even Crowley. There's no point in him being alive anyway, especially if he's going to kill everyone he even marginally cares about. He shivers as he remembers. Bobby. Dad. Jo. Ellen.

Lisa and Ben.

Sure, he didn't kill them, and they don't even remember anything anyway.

It still hurts like a son of a bitch.

Cas.

Sam...

Dean waits for what feels like hours for Sam to come rescue him.

Until then, he sniffles, bites his lip, and fights the tears.

* * *

Cas and Sam sit quietly at the kitchen table.

Sam is munching on a tuna fish sandwich while on his computer, and Cas is scrawling through document after document. They have to find a way to get rid of the mark before it completely destroys all of their lives. Dean's a mess, and both Sam and Cas are too nervous to leave him alone. He's never shown this much vulnerability in the thirty-six years he's been alive.

"What are you two doing?"

Sam looks up from the laptop with widened, shocked eyes.

"Dean, what are you doing out of bed?"

He shrugs. His shoulder is begging for him to chop off his entire arm, and his body is screaming for him to sit down. He plops his ass into the chair across from his brother and angel friend. His right wrist twinges in pain as he scrubs it down the side of his face. Dean knows he looks like complete and utter shit. He wants to go back to bed, but his nose is too stuffy, and his head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton balls.

Sam, being the mother henning little brother he is, immediately notices something is really off with his older brother. He's sniffling, rubbing his nose with his thumb, and his face is entirely flushed of color. Dean's skin is three shades lighter than it should be. Sam's heart thumps with worry in his chest. Of course Dean would get sick right now when he's most fragile and susceptible. He really and honestly isn't shocked in the slightest. Stress sickness is real, after all.

Dean tries to choke back the vomit rising in his throat. He doesn't know where the upset stomach came from; he just knows it seems as if knives are jabbing his abdomen. He grips his stomach and forcefully expels its very few contents all over himself and the wooden table. A sea of yellow and clear phlegm splatters across the surface, and Cas and Sam exchange worried glances. Sam gets up as fast as possible and rushes to Dean's side, while Cas grabs the paper towels.

Sam drags his brother into his own bedroom. He sits him carefully on the side, removes his soiled flannel and jeans, being mindful of his collarbone, and replaces them with one of his long sleeved shirts and sweatpants. Under normal circumstances, Sam would have tossed him into the shower, but Dean's emotions are all over the map, and the water itself would aggravate his injury, which is all too fresh to be irritated. His bruises stand out immensely compared to his pallor. They're not healing at all.

Right now, it's so unlike Dean that it's make Sam sick to his stomach. And Dean's the one who just threw up everywhere. He carefully lets Dean fall back against his pillows, finds a way to make sure his elbow doesn't flop around while he sleeps, and waits for unconsciousness to take over. It doesn't take Dean long to succumb to his exhaustion. Sam closes his bedroom door. He sighs, rubs his hand over his stubble, and blinks back his own tears.

* * *

"Something's not right with him, Cas."

They've settled down for the morning, finally. It's half past three. Cas finished cleaning Dean's mess hours ago, but vomit ended up staining his trench coat and white dress shirt, so Sam lets him borrow one of his red tees. Sam is seated on the couch, and Cas is sitting on the floor, his knees held closely to his chest; he seems to be deep in thought.

"He's sick."

"I know that. But he's not acting like himself."

"He's probably just exhausted. Like you were when you did the trials."

Sam gulps.

It's never that simple when you're a Winchester.

"No, Cas. I think Dean's in trouble."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, BamaBelle2012, was it okay? I hope it was. Thank you all so much for reading, favoriting, and following this story! It means the world to me. Please keep submitting new requests, and remember to keep reviewing! =)


	5. lenail125

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its fabulous characters.

* * *

Once again, I just wanted to thank you all for the reviews and the requests!

This one-shot is for lenail125, who simply requested for Dean to have appendicitis during his teen years. It's a pretty easy and straightforward prompt, and I will try to make this one the best one yet. I hope you guys are still enjoying this idea, and I want everyone to continue submitting new requests, even if I have already written one of yours previously.

Dean is 13, and Sam is 9.

* * *

lenail125

* * *

_May 10, 1992_

Sam's birthday was a mere eight days ago, and the newly turned nine year old has not stopped reading his new anatomy book. He ignores John when he calls for him to wash his face, eat dinner, or simply go to bed. The textbook belonged to one of John's friend's back in the 70s, and she hasn't touched it since. He figured Sammy would like it. His youngest son is definitely the "brainiac" of the family. Dean's great with mechanics, and Sam just has a fire for knowledge.

They're currently holed up in their sixth apartment in two months. Sam and Dean are both driving each other up the walls, so John's decided to hang around with them to get some training done. He told Bobby to take any cases for the next few days, mainly because Dean's getting a little rusty on his shooting abilities, and Sam isn't really that great of a shot. Sure, he's only nine, but nine is a good age to absorb and learn new things.

"C'mon, boys. We're going outside," John announces, clasping his hands together.

Sam doesn't budge from his spot on the couch. His bare feet are hanging over the edge of the decrepit leather, head cradled by several t-shirts used as a makeshift pillow, and his eyes light up as he follows the words on the page. John grabs his son's knee and shakes it lightly, signaling to him that it's time to get up and actually do some activities. It's the weekend, almost summer for the boys, and this is probably one of only chances John will have to spend time with them for the next while. He isn't sure how long his next job will take.

"No thanks, Dad," Sam says.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Sammy. Let's go."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I want to read my book. We don't have to go shooting today. We can go tomorrow."

Often times, his father heavily annoys the youngest Winchester. He likes it when it's just him and Dean. His brother may be bossy, but he's more fun than Dad, and he doesn't make him practice shooting. Sam knows all about what his father does, and he wants no part of it. There is no "family business" to him. Dean tells him to not worry about it and act like a normal kid. Dean handles almost everything when it comes to Dad.

"Samuel," John says, clearly irritated.

At the use of his full name, Sam drops his book on the coffee table. "Yes, sir. I'll go get Dean." His head is lowered with each step he takes toward their shared bedroom. He hates it when his dad is home. All he normally does is drink and badger them. Sam doesn't know what possessed his father to decide that today is a great day for shooting practice, but he doesn't understand half of what he does. He mentally shrugs to himself.

Dean is passed out on top of his comforter. His blond spikes are matted to his forehead with sweat, and one bare foot is dangling off the edge of the bed. He's only wearing a pair of ratty, old, red basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. His cheeks are flushed bright pink. Sam carefully tip toes to his older brother's side and places a gentle hand on Dean's forehead. It's scalding hot. Sam bites his bottom lip so hard that it bleeds. He knew something was wrong with Dean last night by how loudly he was snoring. Dean snores a little, but never like last night.

Sam backs away slowly enough that it doesn't wake his brother up and then darts out of their room. He runs down the hall and pulls on John's shirtsleeve, who is now sitting at the kitchen table reading the morning paper. "Dean's sick." He leads his father back into their bedroom and points at the lump of his brother on the bed. "See. He's got a fever."

John puts the back of his hand on Dean's forehead. "Shit," he mumbles. Dean doesn't get sick very often, but, when he does, it's an all out affair. Colds turn into pneumonia, and a cough turns into bronchitis. It's usually Sam who ends up with one illness or the other. His oldest looks so fragile and exhausted with dark purple smudges beneath his eyes. "Dean, buddy, you gotta wake up." He shakes him softly on the shoulder.

"Nhhhmm..."

The thirteen year old creaks his sore eyes open to see his brother and his dad hovering over him with worried glances plastered on their faces. The dull ache in his side that he went to sleep with has turned into a stabbing sensation that makes him queasy. He grips his right side and rolls away from Sam and John, praying that they would leave him alone so he could sleep. However, it never happens anywhere close to like that in the Winchester "house."

"Dean, what's wrong?" John asks, actually being quiet and trying to tend to his obviously ill son.

"N'thin'. Go 'way."

"C'mon, dude," Sam says. "Spill."

"St'mach hurts."

"Where at?" Sam inquires.

Dean points a shaky finger at the pain. He can feel his cheeks heating up and the pain taking control. He squirms beneath his younger brother's touch, who is poking and prodding the sorest spots imaginable. Dean quickly spills his cookies over the side of the bed and all over Sam's bare feet. His brother, all nine years of him, looks completely fine with it, though.

"He's got appendicitis, Dad. We gotta get him to the hospital."

Sam is trying his hardest to ignore the puke soaking his feet. It's chunky and pale and has lumps of carrots in it from last night's dinner. He breathes through his nose and pleads that he doesn't end up vomiting too. Dean's done this for him thousands of times. God knows he can handle being thrown up on once in his life. He remembers on Halloween when he binged on candy and then proceeded to lose it all in Dean's bed and his brother's back.

He can take one for the team.

"Alright, we gotta go, son," John says as softly as he can. He picks Dean up bridal style and heads out to the Impala, leaving Sam in their room to clean himself up. Sam swiftly wipes the vomit from in between his toes, changes from basketball to khaki shorts, pulls on a random pair of socks and shoes, and is out the door within seconds. He sits in the backseat with his sick brother, holding his hand and letting him rest his head on his lap.

* * *

When Dean regains consciousness, his side no longer hurts.

It's quite amazing, actually. The excruciating pain is now replaced by a new, warm, and fuzzy feeling. His eyes can't stay open without him concentrating really hard, and his limbs feel incredibly numb. Even his mouth is having technical issues; he's got terrible cottonmouth, like he gets when he's got a cold. Overall, though, he feels immensely better than he did before.

"Dean, you're awake!"

The older Winchester turns his head. Sammy is standing beside his bed with a huge grin on his face.

"Looks like it."

Sam takes a seat next to him on the edge. Dean tugs on his arm as he scoots over as carefully as possible, shifting to make room for his brother. Sam obliges and snuggles up closer, turning on his side to face Dean. He looks like crap. Still three shades paler than usual. Still seems three times smaller and more vulnerable, too. Truth be told, his dad was driving him nuts in the waiting room, and he couldn't stand the anxiety. He missed his brother. His pain in the butt, bossy, and mostly rude brother.

"Sorry for throwing up on you, Sammy," Dean apologizes after a few moments of comfortable silence.

Sam just shrugs. "I've done it to you."

Dean laughs, wincing at the pain in his side. "No kidding, little bro."

* * *

_Three days later_

"Welcome home, Dean!" Sam shouts.

Dean smiles as John helps him into their apartment. He's sore, tired, and really wants to take a nap, but it's so comforting to be "home." Sam and Dad, but probably mostly Sam, even made a sign for him. It's been three extremely long and boring days at the hospital, and all of his nurses were either dudes or grannies. Dad helps him sit down on the couch, and he cringes at the stinging sensation from his operation.

"How are you feeling, kiddo?" John inquires. Dean's been pretty quiet the last few days. He's always quiet, but this was different. And he isn't sure if it's from being sick or if something else is going on. "Any better?"

"I'm fine, sir."

John eyes his son. "Are you sure?"

Dean nods. "I'll be up and running in no time to take care of things."

John's heart plummets into his chest. He isn't even asking to insist he rush his recovery to take care of the house and his brother; he's asking because he's his son. He wants Dean to feel better and be at one hundred percent before he starts doing anything too crazy. The doctor said he'd be fully recovered in about a week, but to take it easy for the next two. John wants to be there for his thirteen year old, and he's going to try his best to stay for that entire duration.

"Don't rush yourself," is all John says before he heads into the kitchen. "I'll be here until you feel better."

* * *

John is gone just two days later.

Dean still makes sure Sam is clean and fed, pays the rent with their dad's money, and goes grocery shopping when Sam complains that they're out of cereal and milk. He still puts medication on his stitches, cleans his surgical site, and takes his antibiotics.

Because a Winchester's work is never done.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, lenail125! Thank you for your request! I also want to thank everyone else for their requests, positive feedback, and for continuing to read and review on this story! =)


	6. Lilith626

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

I can't tell you how grateful I am for you guys! Thank you so much!

This one-shot was requested by Lilith626. "Dean is two with the stomach flu. Mary and John take care of him."

I have a feeling this is the hardest one I have received thus far, especially with our limited knowledge on Mary. However, John will definitely be the most interesting to write because he will, undoubtedly, be an entirely different person prior to his wife's death. It'll be a bit weird to write baby Dean, too. Plus, no Sammy. But, honestly, I LOVE this idea! It will give me a chance to show a new side to the show that perhaps we can just assume happened.

So, thank you Lilith626 for such a unique prompt! I look forward to sharing this with you.

This may be a bit shorter, so I'm sorry about that.

* * *

Lilith626

* * *

_January 29, 1981_

"It's okay, sweetie. Just let it out."

Mary rubs her young son's quivering back, tears swelling up in her eyes. Dean turned two years old five days ago, and he's been so sick. Her baby has never been so sleepy and quiet and upset. She will do anything to make him feel better, and it seems to be that the only thing she can do is stay with him. Every time she has tried to leave today, Dean has clung to her like a baby koala. It would be adorable and sweet if he weren't ill with the stomach flu.

Her supplies have ranged from minute things like Mr. Bear or _The Muppets_ to the big ones like a green bucket for her son's vomit and a constantly wet, cold washcloth. "Hey Jude" elevates the cries, and rice and tomato soup is heaved back up moments later. She flushes the toilet, where his latest episode has occurred, and draws a bath for her baby. A bath will help lower his fever and possibly make his stomach feel less icky.

Mary gently removes her son's dinosaur pajamas and runs her thumb down his cheeks. Dean's clearly fighting to stay awake, even with tears leaking down his face like a malfunctioning hose. His blond hair is matted to his forehead, and he's sucking on his thumb without a word. It's unusual for Dean not to be babbling away, reciting the stories Mary tells him as he lays down for bed each night. He's been vocal and able to string sentences together since early last year.

"C'mon, peanut. Let's wash those germs away."

She lifts her two year old into the tub and puts shampoo in her hands, rubbing them together before making suds in his hair. Just as she's lightly skimming it through the blond locks, she hears a soft knock on the bathroom door. She turns around and smiles when she sees John, who is sporting black smudges on his face from the garage and an old _ACDC_ 1976 concert tee. He leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

"How is he?" he asks. It's clear that he's not feeling so well due to his pink cheeks and overall exhausted demeanor. Dean started to come down with something the day after his birthday; it was just a cough and the sniffles. He never imagined it would turn into the stomach flu this quickly. Last night, he cuddled Dean on his chest in the recliner, hoping the touch would ease his son's belly. It didn't. Dean threw up four more times and could barely keep anything down.

She shrugs. "I've never seen him like this," she says. Mary finishes up the bath; it doesn't have to be long since he just had one a few hours ago. Dean whimpers as she gets him dressed and dries his hair with a towel. Tears stream down his face by the time she's done, and John picks him up. The tiny two year old curls his face into his neck, wrapping his arms around it.

"Don't feel good, Dadda," Dean mumbles.

John rubs his back. "I know, Deano." He carries his son into his and Mary's bedroom and lies down with him still on his chest. The toddler still sleeps in his crib for now, and the rocking chair won't settle well with his aching back tonight. He kicks off his shoes, turns out the light, and waits for his baby boy's body to relax against him. John sighs in relief when small snores fill the room.

Mary enters to find John and Dean both curled up together, fast asleep. Her boys are definitely the cutest.

* * *

_1:00 a.m._

"Daddy!"

Little fingers poke into John's shirt. "Wha's goin' on?"

It takes the eldest Winchester to realize that it's Dean prodding at him. And it takes several more seconds before he smells the bile on his tee and a bit of drool on his face. As soon as he clicks on the lamp, he notices the puddle of yellow phlegm on him. He stands up with Dean still in his arms and carries him into his son's bedroom, laying him down gently in his crib. John shucks off his soiled shirt.

"What happened?" Mary says, interrupted by a vicious yawn. She scrubs a hand down the side of her face and tries to perk up and seem like she's alive. "Is he okay?"

"Just a little accident," John says. "Nothing Daddy can't handle."

John wipes Dean's face with a cool rag. His pajamas are dry and clean, so he opts to leave him wearing them. Dean is fast asleep within the confounds of his bed in a few moments. He rolls on to his side, thumb stuck securely in his mouth, as always. John bends over to kiss his cheek and run a hand through his hair before turning to his wife. The two Winchesters wrap their arms around each other and kiss; Mary lays her head on John's shoulder.

"He's going to be fine, sweetheart," John says.

Mary smiles brightly and grabs her husband's hand. "I know."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know it's much shorter than the other requests, and I'm really sorry for that. I hope you enjoyed it at least somewhat, Lilith626! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	7. Laura's-eyes

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all very much for your continued requests and reviews! You are amazing!

This request is from Laura's-eyes. "I would love to read a Teen!Dean struggling with asthma story. I don't have any exact ideas in mind just the fact that it's teen Dean and he's a chronic asthmatic. Maybe it's interfering with him being able to hunt with his dad. Anything is good!"

I love asthmatic Dean, and I've never really written anything where he struggles with asthma. I do, however, think it would have been an excellent touch on the show, whether it had been Sam or Dean struggling with it. The closest thing as an audience that we've seen to Dean being sick is in "Faith," and that was more of a wobbly and weak sick than an actual feverish sick. We got to see a sick Sam during the trials! I want more sick Dean on the show!

Maybe we will get some stress illness or something when the show returns in March!

Dean is 17, and Sam is 13.

* * *

Laura's-eyes

* * *

_June 30, 1996 _

"You never let me do _anything_!"

Dean rolls his eyes. Yet another dramatic "I'm a teenager" moment from Sam. Lately, all Sam does is complain about how unfair his life is. And, quite frankly, Dean is getting sick of it. He huffs loudly and slams the door to their shared bedroom so hard that the single picture of a Tennessee mountain range shivers against the wall. Dean crosses his arms over his chest, leans back on the couch, and closes his eyes.

His day began with an angry thirteen year old waking him up at the butt crack of dawn for some pancakes. He doesn't understand why Sam can't make them himself, but that's maybe because he always does it for him. Now that Dean comes to think of it, he does everything for that twerp. Maybe he should actually make his brother share the chores...But he won't. Dad put him in charge to take care of Sam, and that's what he's going to do.

The rest of his day has consisted of a sticky mess of syrup splattered on the kitchen table, dishes, vacuuming, and wincing every time he breathes. He's had to use his inhaler four times today, and it's only eleven in the morning. Dean figures it's because of the humid and stale air; they normally cause his asthma to flare up. Luckily, Sam hasn't seen him struggling; otherwise he'd probably be confined to not moving for the remainder of this "great" late June day.

"Boys! I'm home!" John Winchester announces, setting his two duffel bags on the carpet as soon as he steps inside. He's raring to go and really wants to take the boys shooting today. He can't wait to show them this new technique Bobby taught him. Plus, Sam and Dean need to get out of this grimy apartment before they kill each other. He was gone for nearly a month this time. Dean's got a job working at a local garage, and he's allowed to take Sam with him, so it is the best and most ideal situation for his sons to be in.

John grabs Dean's shoulders and shakes them lightly, smiling brightly. The apartment is immaculate, thanks to Dean's superb cleaning skills. There's no food left out anywhere, and the kitchen, usually the worst of rooms, is spotless. His eldest just looks up and gives a tiny grin. The news is on the TV, but Dean doesn't seem to be paying attention to it. Since it seems like the chores are all complete, John decides to leave him be until he talks to Sam.

He makes his way down the hallway to his sons' shared bedroom. Sammy is laying on his bed, listening to his CD player, and reading a novel. He isn't wearing a shirt or socks. He looks entirely engrossed in the words. John quietly closes the book and waits for Sam's reaction.

"Dad! Hi." The greeting is less than what he expected and craved; Sam never really seems to miss him when he's gone anymore. He chalks it up to his thirteenth birthday being last month. He's officially entered the most awkward stage of his life where he wants privacy and for everything to go his way constantly. The two of the them exchange quick hugs, and then his youngest plops back down on his bed.

"We're going shooting," John says. "Get dressed, and meet me outside in ten."

Sam groans. "Why? It's like a hundred degrees outside."

"You both need practice."

He whines. "Dad, I'm reading. Why can't I just stay in here?"

"Sam, we're going to go shooting as a family. You're part of the family. Get up, and let's go."

"Fine," is the only response John receives. He watches Sam pull on a t-shirt and white socks before he exits the room. Sometimes, he wishes Sam were a little more grateful. Both he and Dean provide everything for him. In reality, to John, his youngest really doesn't have to do much more than bathe himself and do his homework. He wants Sam to give a crap about whether he's home or not, but he feels as though that bridge may have already been burned.

John shakes Dean awake, who was dozing off on the couch.

His oldest, however, is standing and putting on boots within seconds.

No arguments necessary.

* * *

"Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?" John questions harshly.

His eldest hasn't hit one single target, which consists of soda and beer bottles. He's wheezing heavily and seems continuously out of breath, even though they haven't moved in over an hour. Dean's pale with pink cheeks and purple smudges beneath his eyes. His flannel shirt is clinging to him, and his blond hair is matted to his forehead with sweat.

Dean feels like an idiot. And a failure. And a terrible son. He can't even shoot his gun right. His chest is grossly tight, and he has to stifle coughs into his shirt every few seconds. He's so short of breath that his body feels numb. He sits down on the ground, removes his torn up baseball cap that is being used to block the sun out of his eyes, and runs a shaky hand through his hair. His teeth chatter, and his mind dances with dizziness.

Sam sits down next to him and puts a hand on his back. "Where's your inhaler?" he whispers, not wanting an overly angry John to hear him.

"What's going on, Samuel?"

Sam gulps. "Nothing, sir. Dean just needs to sit for a second."

"Get up. Both of you. We have a lot of work to do."

Dean and Sam exchange glances. Dean has tears swelling in the corners of his eyes, and Sam's heart thumps wildly into his chest. He's pissed and hurt. His older brother is clearly in pain, but his father, as usual, doesn't care. He grabs Dean's inhaler out of his jeans pocket and places it into his brother's mouth. Even the inhaler doesn't work. He's having a bad asthma attack... Sam bites his bottom lip and prepares to speak up.

"We need a hospital, sir."

John glares at him. "What the hell are you talking about now?" He wants to get this shooting done before it becomes dark outside, but his dumb sons know exactly how to waste his time over and over again. Sometimes, he wishes he never came home. Dean's pretty good at handling himself and his brother anyway. Wait...Why is he saying this?

"Dean..." Sam says. "He has asthma. Remember?"

"I remember, Sam."

How could he forget that Dean has asthma?

If he were to let Sam know that, he would never forgive him.

"It's getting really bad. He's turning blue, Dad!"

"Why does he need a hospital for that? Sam, I don't have that much money left."

Sam's eyes grow wider, and he stands up. His cheeks are bright red, and he himself is starting to breathe heavily. "Then steal it! Do whatever it is you do to get money. He needs a hospital now!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me!"

"D-Dad..." Dean whispers. His airway is so tight and constricted that barely any air will get through. He can literally feel his cheeks turning blue. Sam rubs comforting circles on his back. He listens to Sam and Dad argue for what feels like an eternity before he feels himself being scooped up and ran with. His head is made of iron, and his eyes are made of lead. The last thing he's aware of is his head drooping on to someone's shoulder in the Impala.

* * *

_The next day_

Dean's currently undergoing his fifth breathing treatment. After a night of being on 100% oxygen and getting the best sleep of his life, he's left with a sore chest and a terrible cough. His voice rasps, and it's still really hard to swallow. The doc said something about making his medication stronger, which will have supposedly bad side effects the first week or so.

Dad left in the middle of the night. Dean's trying not to blame himself, but it's really hard not to. He doesn't understand why "chronic asthma" has to be this intense. It makes it hard for him to run, stay awake and alert for long periods of time, and makes him wheezy constantly. His dad told him that he was sorry and that Bobby will take care of him and Sam, but it doesn't make his feelings of failure go away. He's the one who's supposed to be taking care of things.

"How you feelin', boy?" Bobby asks.

Dean shrugs. "I'm alright."

"Doc says you'll get to go home as soon as we fill out some papers."

Dean just nods and continues breathing in deeply.

He doesn't understand why his life is like this.

As soon as he thinks that, he sees his little brother reading a book beside him, where he's been all night.

"Hey, bitch," he whispers.

Sam just looks up from his book and grins. "Jerk."

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, how was it? Thank you all so much for requesting and reviewing!


	8. Zyanya

**Author's Note: **Unfortunately, I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

I have decided that I will also open this up for hurt!Dean too, whether physical or emotional.

I only have six more requests (including this one) to write. If anyone wants a one-shot written for you with whatever prompt you want, please feel free to review or PM me! It means a lot to me that people have submitted these requests! I hope to receive more of them in the future! Thank you all so much for taking the time to read and review as well.

This one-shot is for Zyanya. "I would love to read some Dean trying to hide a fever, maybe some John or Sam not being so nice to him and later noticing his illness." I think, since I've written quite a few with John in it and more teen Dean fics, I will set this one to be after the show started. I'm going to go with a Sam and Dean angle and have quite a big deal of fluff in there!

It's set somewhere between season one's "Faith" and "Shadow."

* * *

Zyanya

* * *

_February 3, 2006_

"Sam, can you pull over?"

The youngest Winchester rolls his eyes. "For what now, Dean? Let me guess, you ran out of M&amp;Ms, or you have to pee for the thousandth time? You know what? No. I'm not pulling over. Quit being a diabetic." He's tired of having to accommodate his insane brother. He's stopped the Impala at least ten times within their journey from Colorado to New Hampshire, and they're only in Kansas City. Dean's been relaxing in the passenger seat the entire time.

"Jeez, you're cranky. Never mind then." Dean sighs and runs a shaky hand through his hair. He wishes he could tell Sam that he doesn't feel well, but he doesn't want to worry him. Each stop they've made so far is so he could throw up whatever is in his system that's making him feel like complete and utter shit. He lolls his head on to the window and lets the coolness of it soak into his burning skin. His head is aching, his nose is a bit stuffy, and he's going from blazing hot to freezing cold within seconds. He wants the drive to be over.

Instead, he wraps his arms across his chest and tries to sleep it off.

Sam's been extremely pissy the past few days. He's snippy, snarky, and has an unintelligible explanation for everything. It's like he's on his freaking period or something, and Dean's just about had enough of his terrible attitude. When Sam gets like this, the eldest Winchester finds that it's easiest and best if he just leaves Sam alone. Eventually, he comes back around to being a marginally happy and less serious guy.

For now, though, Dean's going to have to tough out whatever is going on with his body.

He's been feeling off since Wednesday. He was sore and could barely move without wincing in pain. Next came a crazy headache that, thankfully, was nursed by Sam not noticing he was popping Advil every hour on the hour. And then today he woke up with his stomach doing somersaults and revolting against his every breath. A bed, a nice, warm bed, sounds like a wonderful object of comfort and magicalness.

* * *

"Dean, we're stopping for dinner. Wake up," Sam says. After driving for fifteen hours straight, he's ready to just collapse into a diner booth and stuff his face. His neck is sore, and his eyes are bleary, but they've at least made some real progress, especially since he refused to pull over for Dean anymore. His brother has been asleep most of the ride since Kansas City, curled up against the window. He's been unnaturally quiet, and he's snoring louder than usual.

"'m not hungry," is the only response he receives.

Sam huffs. "Too bad. You need to eat. C'mon, I'm starving."

Dean opens up his aching eyes and winces at the bright sunlight. He covers his green orbs with his hands and cringes at the beating pulse in his head. His stomach is in knots as he stands, and he nearly falls on his ass in the parking lot that is covered in ice. He and Sam take a seat in a booth, and Sam immediately starts looking at the menu. Dean, on the other hand, just pushes the menu away and starts to stare off into space, hoping his head and stomach will stop hurting.

"You're not hungry?"

He shakes his head. "Not really."

"Dude, c'mon. You gotta be a little hungry. You haven't eaten all day."

He shakes his head again and looks out the window. It's a weirdly sunny day outside, and it's only the beginning of February. Even though it's freezing dick out there, at least it's not snowing or raining or being yet another dumb winter day. Dean's always hated being cold ever since he was a kid. Dad used to forget to pay the electric bill, and he would have to bundle Sam up in whatever he could find, often times leaving nothing for himself.

"You're so selfish, Dean."

Dean's eyes widen, and his eyebrows furrow. Where the hell did that come from?

"I've been driving all day, while you've just been sitting there! You force me to pull over. It's too hot, or it's too cold. You sleep and sleep and sleep just knowing that I'm still awake and driving. It's our hunt that we're going to. Or did you forget the concept of 'our?' You leave your dirty socks all over the place and hog the shower and constantly belittle me and call me "Sammy." I'm not a kid anymore, Dean! I'm getting so tired of having to see you everyday. I wish I was still at Stanford and that Dad didn't poof out of the thin air because then I wouldn't be with the person who annoys me to death everyday!"

And, with that, Sam huffs loudly like an upset teenager and storms out of the diner, back to the Impala.

Dean just sits there.

What the hell just happened?

* * *

Neither of them speaks the rest of the way to the motel.

Dean drives, and Sam passes out in the passenger seat.

The older Winchester wipes his brow with the back of his hand and tries to unclog his congested nose. He's still trying to process what happened at the diner. He's selfish? If only Sam knew how many times he's bathed him, read to him, gave all of their food to him, starved for him, not had but one t-shirt for him, and cuddled him. Sure, Sam's definitely not a kid anymore, but is he really that awful? Sam doesn't even want to be around him anymore.

In order to not make Sam mad, he doesn't say a word when they pull into the motel. He checks in wordlessly and comes back to find his younger brother staring out the window into the night. They enter the room, and Dean starts to shuffle through his bags, getting ready to head to the shower. The water eases his muscle pain and relieves the clogged feeling in his nose just a bit. His stomach is still queasy, but it's the agony riding a horse in his mind that is more nauseating.

He exits the shower wearing a pair of grey socks, black sweats, and a ratty blue long sleeved thermal. Dean draws back the covers, pulls them over his head, and tries to act like he's sleeping. His brother is typing away on his computer and doesn't seem to even notice Dean is in the room. Silently, Dean lets a few tears stream down his cheeks.

When did he become such a bad brother?

* * *

Sam wakes up to the sound of retching.

He rolls over to see that it's just past four in the morning.

His next brilliant observation is that Dean's bed is empty, his covers strewn all over the place. His pillow is on the ground, and tissues are coating the rest of the surface. Oh shit. Sam jumps up and practically sprints to the bathroom, where he finds Dean with his knees pulled up to his chest on the floor. His arms are wrapped around his scrawny legs, and he's visibly shaking. Sam's heart beats rapidly into his chest. When did he start feeling this bad?

"Dean," he coaxes gently. He kneels down on the ground and touches his upper arm. Dean flinches away.

He can't believe this. On the very same day he screams at his brother and loses it, he gets violently sick. Sam's been so into his own issues the past few days that he's neglected to see how ill his brother is. The signs were all there and insanely clear, but he wasn't thinking about Dean. He was thinking about himself. How and why on earth would he call Dean, of all people, selfish? Sam scrubs a hand down his face and sighs heavily.

He's really messed up.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he says. He somehow gets Dean to uncurl and to look at him. With one glance, Sam's heart shatters. He is sporting deep purple smudges beneath his bloodshot eyes. His normally spiked hair is slack and lacking life. His cheeks are viciously flushed red, he's sweat through his shirt, and a mixture of snot and tears leak down his face. Sam's first order of business is to remove his brother's soiled shirt. It isn't easy with Dean not cooperating. He must feel too weak and exhausted to lift his arms.

Sam wipes his brother's face with a cold washcloth, which raises mumbling from Dean, who is fighting an intense battle with sleep. He decides it would be too difficult to get him in the shower, so he opts for that when it's a decent hour and Dean's more rested. He pours green mouthwash into the cap and hands it to Dean, who accepts it gratefully. After the cleansing process is said and done, Sam helps his brother into a standing position and practically drags him to bed.

He lays Dean down in his own bed since his is soaked and too nasty to handle right now. Dean rolls on to his stomach and smushes his face into a pillow. Perhaps he's just too out of his to remember what Sam said to him, or perhaps he's just blowing it off like he normally does. In either case, Sam's mind is racing nervously, and he really hopes his brother will forgive him.

Right now, the best thing he can do is help his brother.

Sam gives Dean a dose of NyQuil before crawling into bed beside him. He carefully and subtly wraps his arms around his stomach, fearing Dean will push him away. Much to his surprise, he doesn't. It's weird for him, even when he's sick, to resort to cuddling. The elder Winchester then proceeds to roll and snuggle his face into Sam's heater of a chest.

Both are asleep instantly.

* * *

"Feeling any better?"

Dean squints open his eyes and moans.

His head feels too sizes to big, and every muscle in his body seems to be spasming at once.

"No," he says shortly.

Sam gets up from his spot at the table to feel his brother's forehead. Damn. He's still burning up, but at least he hasn't puked in almost twelve hours. He may not be on the mend yet, but he's going to get there within the next day or too.

"Hey, Dean. I just wanted to say that I'm really sorry about what I said, and I-"

"Don't worry about it, Sam," Dean cuts him off.

Sam shakes his head. "No, just listen. I didn't mean that you were selfish. You've done everything for me throughout my entire life, and I know that. I don't know what's been wrong with me, but I want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm the terrible brother, not you," he confesses.

Dean laughs a little. "You got that right. Listen, I'm not mad."

"What?" Sam inquires. "I figured you would be pissed."

"Nope. You're my little brother. You get pissy just like any other little brother."

Sam huffs and lies down next to his brother in bed. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

"Mmhmm...Bitch."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm really sorry if this stinks. It took a bit to write this one, so I'm more worried about it than others. Anyway, thank you all so much for requesting, reviewing, and reading! =)


	9. Skipper96 (I)

**Author's Note: **Unfortunately, I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting!

I would just like to continue to let you guys know that I am now open for Dean!whump, so you can feel free to submit ideas where Dean is injured. This broadens the story to more of a Dean hurt/comfort in general concept, and I love writing anything where our beloved Winchester is in forms of distress. Anyway, I wanted to remind you all of that!

This one-shot was requested by Skipper96. "I have this idea set between Season 5/6 where Dean is living with Lisa and Ben. He gets the flu and of course hides it from them because that's what Dean does. Lisa knows something is off, but isn't sure what until she wakes up to find Dean huddled in the bathroom all shaky and feverish and she mothers him to death. Some talk about post-Hell issues or Sam jumping into the Pit would be great!"

I have really been looking forward to writing this one! I loved the dynamic between Dean, Lisa, and Ben, and part of me, while I love Sam and Cas and everyone else, wishes it hadn't ended with their memories of Dean being erased. I'm not kidding; I bawled at that part. The look on Dean's face when he tells Sam to shut up and never talk to him about Lisa and Ben again is absolutely heartbreaking and devastating to watch. Great job to Jensen for his amazing acting, though! =)

* * *

Skipper96 (I)

* * *

_May 18, 2010_

Dean wakes up with Lisa's arm slung over his stomach. She's deep asleep with her face pressed against his neck, holding him as closely as she can. A massive part of Dean is in love with this feeling. For once in years, he feels safe and to where nothing like poltergeists, demons, or even dragons can get to him. The other smaller portion of Dean wants to cut and run and try to find a way to break Sam out of the Pit. Tears swell in the corners of his eyes.

He's been trying not to think about it, honestly. Everything reminds him of Sam, and it's so nauseating. The other day, he made eggs for Ben and Lisa, and all he could think about was how he used to cook his little brother breakfast every morning until he left for college. He feels so silly, but, at the same time, he feels he has a right to be a little distraught.

Too bad he will never tell Lisa, though.

It's bad enough that she knows about their secret. They hunt supernatural beings, for Christ's sake. She doesn't need to know that Sam's dead. Or at least that's what Dean believes. How could his brother survive in the cage with Lucifer and Michael? He was probably ripped to shreds within seconds of arrival. She doesn't need to know how much he's struggling, even though these past few days have been nice in the sort of way that he feels well fed for the first time in ages.

Lisa begins to stretch awake next to him. "Hey," she mumbles sleepily. "You're up early."

Dean looks over at the digital clock on the nightstand. In angry, bleary red numbers it reads 5:30. Lisa normally wakes up at this time everyday to go to work at the office. He internally moans and scrubs a hand down his stubbly face. He goes to swing his feet over the edge of the bed when Lisa grabs his arm. He flinches away from her touch and stands, sheepishly smiling. His skin hurts too much to be touched, and he just wants to shower.

"Are you okay? You're acting a little jumpy," Lisa says.

Dean shrugs. "I'm fine. Bad dream, I guess."

Lisa seems to accept this answer, and she decides to get out of bed as well. She goes to the other side of the bed and hugs Dean gently, laying her head on his shoulder. He's tense and a little on the warm side, but she chalks it up to lying under the covers all night. Dean barely hugs her back and softly pushes her away. She tries to mask the hurt feelings as he grabs random clothes and hops in the shower without even a "good morning."

* * *

Dean wipes the sweat from his forehead.

He just got back inside from dropping Ben off at school, something the eleven year old seems to enjoy. Ben excitedly tells him everyday, in so many words, that he is ecstatic to have Dean around. He's not going to lie; it makes him feel good. Once Sam went to Stanford, he had a hard time accepting the fact that he wasn't needed anymore. To have a young boy in his life again is different and weird and exciting, but Dean, secretly, is thrilled about it.

Except for today. He's not really thrilled about anything today.

His muscles are stiff and sore as he collapses on the soft, cool leather couch. He clicks on the television and pulls a blanket over his aching body, suddenly shivering with intensity. His teeth chatter as he crosses his arms and rolls to his side, trying his best to focus on some random soap opera that's playing in the background. His left nostril decides that it's a good time to clog up, making him even more uncomfortable than he already was.

Once, when Dean was ten, a six year old Sammy brought home a present for his brother. In kindergarten that day, they had made a card for their Mommy's for Mother's Day. Sam's never really had a mother, so, since Father's Day was only a month later, and Daddy could wait for his gifts, Sammy made a card for Dean. The words were meticulously written in Sam's little kid handwriting; he was such a particular brat even at six.

_Thank you for being the best big brother in the world. I love you!_

What followed was a picture of the two of them holding hands in the park. Dean hasn't held Sammy's hand since his little brother was nine and thought he was too old. The older, he guesses now _only_ Winchester, lets tears slide down his cheeks and swallows back the nausea bubbling in his sore throat. He misses his brother so much. It's like him leaving for Stanford and being stabbed in the back by Jake times a thousand.

Dean tries to just imagine sleeping in a hotel room with his brother by his side.

* * *

"I'm home!" Lisa announces.

It's a little past two in the afternoon; her boss let her off early. She's smiling brightly. It's a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining, and the birds are chirping. Okay, so maybe that's a little cliché and stereotypical, but it truly is a spring day outside. No rain, not a cloud in sight, and people are actually walking their dogs for once instead of being scared to step in snow. Maybe she could convince her new houseguest to barbeque for her and Ben.

She takes off her sandals and enters the living room. Dean is curled into a ball on his side on the couch, seeming to be in a deep sleep. Lisa gulps when she sees the dried tear tracks staining his flushed cheeks. She knew this morning that something was up with him, but, truth be told, she's too afraid to ask. Ever since Dean showed up on her doorstep a mere five days ago, he's been visibly shaken by something. She doesn't know where Sam is or what happened to the two of them. All she knows is that Dean a mess, and she's determined to fix it.

Lisa shakes Dean's shoulder, and he startles himself awake.

"What's up?" He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and sits up.

Lisa sits down on the couch, and Dean scoots to where his head is leaning on her shoulder. Normally, he wouldn't go for physical contact, but he...it just feels right. The two of them hold each other's hands, and, before Dean realizes it, he's drifting off to sleep once again, leaving Lisa with a worried clump in her throat and biting her bottom lip so hard it bleeds.

* * *

It's six in the evening.

Lisa is cooking dinner while Dean and Ben bicker back and forth at the table. She made Dean take some ibuprofen earlier because he was sweating through her blouse. His color is a bit better, and he seems to be a bit cooler now. He's already wearing sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt and seems to be retired for the night. But, Lisa doesn't mind or even ask because she knows it's a delicate time for him. He will tell her when he's ready.

She passes out two plates of spaghetti to Dean and Ben. Her son immediately digs in, which is completely normal for a growing boy. When she takes a seat next to Dean and across from Ben, she notices Dean using his fork to play around in the noodles. He's cradling his head with his left hand, and his eyes are already drooping. She rubs his forearm and smiles at him. He gives back a slight, watery grin and goes back to staring at his plate. Lisa and Ben exchange worried glances, but Ben just shrugs and goes back to stuffing his face.

Oh boy.

* * *

Lisa wakes up alone in bed.

She clicks on the light on the nightstand, trying to muddle through the confusion her sleep-possessed brain is processing. There's a puddle of sweat next to her where Dean's body once was. It takes yet another few moments before she realizes Dean isn't actually sleeping there anymore. She hops out of bed and immediately goes into their bedroom's bathroom. Her heart breaks at the sight.

Dean has wrapped himself around the toilet, one arm holding up his head and the other clinging to the bowl. He's heaving up a sea of red and orange from their dinner, and he's actually shaking. Lisa drops down on her knees next to him hard enough to leave bruises and starts to rub his back. His muscles are spasming beneath her reassuring touch. Dean doesn't bother to not hide how he's feeling because, once he's done, he practically collapses into her waiting arms.

Lisa runs her hand through his hair and lets him sit for as long as he needs to. He begins to go slack in her arms, and that's when Lisa knows he's ready. He's burning up and has soiled his clothes. Lisa props him up against the bathtub and runs to grab him a new pair of pants and a t-shirt. His teeth are clattering against each other, and he can barely hold himself up. Lisa's stomach is so filled to the brim with worry that she's not sure she won't throw up too.

It takes a while to get Dean cleaned up and back into bed. She lays a towel underneath him to soak up the sweat, which he'll undeniably soak through again anyway. Dean is almost asleep when she forces him to take the flu medicine she bought for Ben this past winter.

"You need to take this," she coaxes gently.

Dean shakes his head. "C'nt. G'nna get sick," he mumbles.

"Please? For me?"

That's when the tears start leaking from Dean's eyes.

Lisa crawls into bed next to him and lets his head fall on her chest. He's quivering and jus needs to be held. Something happened; something big. She wants him to know that it's okay to tell her, but, at the same time, she doesn't want to seem to pushy.

"S'mmy used to say that to me."

Lisa caves in. "What happened to your brother, Dean?"

Dean shakes his head once again, burying it even deeper into her. He can't. He can't. He can't. His breathing is coming out in short, ragged gasps. Sam would give him his inhaler right about now, but, sometimes, Dean forgets he has to sneak that past Lisa. This is bad enough as it is. He doesn't bother to hide his tears or his depression or his frustration with himself. It should be him in the Pit. Not Sam. No his brother.

"He...um...he..."

Lisa rubs his back. "Shhh...It's okay. You don't have to tell me right now. I just want you to feel better."

Dean nods and eventually drifts off to sleep, the flu medicine finally kicking in.

He dreams of his brother and all the things he wishes he could say to him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This may be my favorite one I have written so far. I think we definitely should have seen some more traumatic Dean before all of the action starts in season six because I think something like this could have actually happened. Maybe not Dean being sick, but to where he completely breaks down in front of Lisa. Skipper96, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting, and I look forward to your thoughts!


	10. wandamarie

**Author's Note: **I really wish I did, but I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Chapter 10!

I want to say thank you all so much for your reviews and requests! This has actually gotten a lot more positive feedback than I thought it would, which is amazing to me. I have been trying to update daily, but this is a fair warning to you guys that I may not be able to update this Saturday. My family is coming up to see my boyfriend and I since we haven't seen each other in over a month. I may pre-write a chapter and just post it when I'm out, but I'm really not sure that will happen or if it will be an option.

As you guys can see, I have changed the title of the story! So, once again, you can request hurt or injured Dean fics along with him being ill. I'll be honest, I write way better sick fics (well, to me), but I'm ready and willing to try to broaden my horizons. The way I look at writing is that I'll never know if I can write something well unless I just do it.

Long story short, this request was written for wandamarie. She wants Dean to be 12 and Sam to be 8, and they both come down with the chickenpox, forcing John and Bobby to take care of them in the middle of a hunt.

* * *

wandamarie

* * *

_September 9, 1991_

A sick Sammy drives Dean nuts.

His brother has been whining and grumbling about how badly he itches. Dean's resorted to several baths, covering his hands with oven mittens to avoid scarring, and nearly three bottles of calamine lotion. At eight years old, the elder Winchester figures Sammy would be a bit more used to taking care of himself, but then the twelve year old remembers that he does almost everything for him still. Dean just rolls his eyes and scratches the back of his head.

"Dean," Sammy groans. "I don't feel so good."

But a sick Sammy also upsets Dean.

Sammy is rubbing his stomach raw from scratching, even with the gloves. His long, boyish hair is splayed across his forehead, and he's sweating rather heavily. His temperature has been holding steady at about 101.1 all day, which is enough to make the young boy absolutely miserable. Now, though, when Dean takes his temperature, it reads 103. Dean's heart literally aches because he wishes, oh how he wishes, he could take his pain away. Sammy doesn't get sick very often, but, when he does, it tends to get bad fast.

Dean crawls into bed next to his brother and starts to rub his stomach lightly with the tips of his fingers. Sammy's chest and abdomen are cluttered with little red dots, some of which are beginning to bleed. His forehead is really warm, too warm, and Dean's pulse throbs harder. He needs to find another way to help him, but they're out of cold medicine, which is all Sammy can take. Dean takes ibuprofen or Tylenol; Sammy can't until he's older.

"I know, Sammy. How about another bath?"

Sammy shakes his head. "No."

"C'mon. It will cool you down and make you feel less icky."

The younger Winchester scowls. Sammy holds his arms around, and Dean comes over to pick him up. At twelve and eight, neither of them should really be doing this, but Dean will do anything to make Sammy feel better, and Sammy doesn't have enough energy to move on his own. The eldest runs lukewarm water and then helps Sammy in. The little boy shivers visibly and violent, and Dean's heart breaks into a thousand pieces.

Sammy's fever is way too high. Dean learned in school that fevers over 103 for a long period of time can cause brain damage. Sammy doesn't need anymore of that than he already has... The blond boy considers calling their father, but he's on a hunt. Dad says to only call during emergencies. Sure, neither of them has broken a bone, and they, while it's very little, still have food. But, Sammy's sick and covered in spots, and they are completely out of medicine.

Dean grabs the phone while Sammy sits back in the tub, completely exhausted.

He clutches it in his hand, breathes deeply, and punches in his dad's phone number.

* * *

John's cell phone rings.

He and his good friend Bobby Singer are in the middle of hunting a Wendigo out in the woods of Illinois. The monster is just about to be lit on fire, but it's still distracting. John figures he forgot to turn down his ringer, but that's not the point. The point is that they're in the middle of a hunt, and neither of them needs any distractions. Thankfully and luckily, Bobby has his back and lights the bastard up in flames. It practically dissolves and crumbles in front of them.

"Hello?" he asks gruffly.

"Dad?" It's his eldest son's, Dean, voice on the other end of the phone.

"Jesus, Christ, Dean. What have I told you about calling me in the middle of a hunt?" he spits as he and Bobby walk back to the Impala. Bobby shakes his head in disgust at how he takes to his son. He loves both Sam and Dean to pieces and loves their time together and the fact that both brothers call him "Uncle Bobby." Those kids make him feel important, and John is too much of an asshole to realize how he's treating them, especially the elder of the two.

"You said never to call you, but it's an emergency!"

John rolls his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Sammy's got chickenpox, and his fever's really high, and we ran out of medicine!"

As frustrated as he is, John explains to his son that he and Bobby will be there as soon as possible. He clicks his phone shut and gets in his baby, nearly slamming his fists into the sterring wheel in frustration. Sometimes, being a father is too much.

Damn kids.

* * *

"Don't worry, Sammy. Dad will be here soon."

Both Winchesters are cuddled up in Dean's bed. Sammy is lying on his stomach and feels a bit cooler after his bath. Dean reads a book to his brother and tries to swallow back the nervous nausea. He really pissed his dad off. He didn't actually yell at him, but he knows just by the tone of voice. Dean's certain that, the second Dad gets home, he's going to rip him a new one. He hates being such a disappointment as a son and brother.

Sammy falls asleep halfway through the first chapter, so Dean covers him up all the way with his plaid comforter. Since the bed is only a twin, he goes and sits in a wooden chair next to the bed so Sammy can have full range to roll. He knows how his brother sleeps, and he doesn't want to be in the way of his rest when he's this sick.

Dean scratches the back of his head violently and looks down at his arms. He sees little red dots that look angry and marred from itching. His stomach and head hurt for some reason, but he can't cure his own itching. He figures since neither of them have ever had chickenpox that this would happen. His bumps showed up only two days after Sam's, and the only thing he's taken is a few ibuprofen here and there. He didn't want to use the calamine lotion or sleep just in case Sammy needed him.

The blond boy sits back in the chair, crosses his arms, and waits for his father to return.

* * *

John and Bobby arrive at their crappy apartment around two in the morning.

Both are exhausted and aching, but they clearly have more to take care of.

They make a beeline to Sam and Dean's bedroom and discover Sam sleeping peacefully in Dean's bed and Dean half-awake in a wooden chair holding his brother's hand. John grabs Dean's shoulder harshly and practically drags him into his own room while Bobby gives Sam new medication to help the ailing boy feel better. John half-pushes Dean on to his bed and starts to pace as the twelve year old stares at his socked feet.

Dean feels so stupid, so so stupid. How could he call his father in the middle of a hunt? He knows never to do that. Even when he was nine and Sammy was five and Sammy broke his arm, he didn't call. Why would he call for medicine? He's just so worried over Sammy that he lost control of his emotions and all common sense. He never should have done that, and now Dad's going to kill him and think he's worthless. Again.

"How many times have I told you not to do that?"

"A few, sir."

John scoffs. "More like a lot. That's the third time you've called me this year, Dean."

Dean feels tears swell in the corners of his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. "I'm really sorry, sir."

"Your 'sorrys' don't mean anything to me. I can't believe you, Dean! I give you one job, and yet you screw it up. Why is it that you continue to defy me?"

Dean shrugs.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you."

"I-I...I don't know, sir."

"You're so stupid. You could have gotten Bobby and me killed! Do you even care? You would have been without me, and how would you have survived? Did you think about that? No, because you never think about anything, you ungrateful brat. You expect me to feed you, clothe you, and buy you all sorts of things. Do you ever sit back and realize what I'm trying to do for you? For the both of you!"

John scrubs his tired hands down his stubbly face and leans against his dressed. Dean has purple bags beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his arms and face are caked in spots, much like he saw Sam's body to be. He wants to scream at his son even longer, but both are on the verge of tears. He just wishes Dean would actually listen and do as he says for once. He'll be a teenager in a few months, and that comes with a lot more responsibility.

"Listen, bud, I'm sorry. I've...I've had a long day. Can we just forget about it?"

Dean nods, but doesn't make eye contact with his father. He feels two inches tall. He wrings his hands together and tries to stop his probably visible quivering. His bottom lip is trembling, and there's a tear that's threatening massively to fall out of his left eye. He sniffles and wipes his nose on the shoulder of his t-shirt before standing. "Yes, sir," is all he says.

John pulls Dean in for a hug.

Being a father is hard.

* * *

Sammy's up and bouncing around in two days.

Meanwhile, Dean's fighting the brunt of the illness and barely has enough strength to move around. Still, though, since his dad is home, he decides to continue on as if things were normal. He does his chores, cooks his brother and father breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and cleans the apartment from top to bottom without missing a single nook or cranny. He scratches his arms so hard they bleed; he already has nine Band-Aids slathered across his limbs.

"Dean," John beckons from the couch.

The elder Winchester gets out of bed and walks briskly down the hall, past Sammy playing with toy cars on the floor. His dad has his feet propped up on the coffee table, something he and Sammy aren't allowed to do, and he's sipping on his second beer. Dean tries to make eye contact, but it's really hard. He's never felt so...terrible before. He's let Sammy down a few times, and Sammy's always forgiven him, but he knows Dad won't.

Dad's going to hold on to this, and he's never going to trust him again, and he's going to think he's the worst kid in the world.

"Could you get me another beer?" he asks.

Dean nods. "Yes, sir."

He'll do anything to let his father know he's not a screw up.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I felt so bad writing this! Poor Dean! He always gets the brunt of everything! I hope you enjoyed this wandamarie, and I can't wait to hear feedback. Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	11. KitCat

**Author's Note: **Unfortunately, I do not own the wonderfully amazing television show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reviewing and requesting! You guys are wonderful!

KitCat requested: "Dean is getting over a slight cold, but he hurts all over, and he is dizzy. Sam and Cas are out hunting a demon when it captures. The demon tortures Dean, but soon Sam and Cas burst in. They fight like demons themselves when they see sick and hurt Dean. Lots of mother henning Cas and Sam, please!"

This is another one that I had difficulty writing. Normally, I don't write anything actually "supernatural," which is really ironic. I usually write fluff and angst with some involvement of the supernatural, but never about the ghost, demon, etc. itself. So, this one was interesting and a unique experience. With that said, I am incredibly sorry to KitCat and everyone else if it is not that great. All I can say is that I tried. =)

I am going to place this in season 5, somewhere before "Fallen Idols."

* * *

KitCat

* * *

_October 4, 2009_

Dean's been lying in bed all day.

He literally hasn't bothered to get up, not even to take a leak. Sure, his bladder is about to explode, but, for once in the past few days, he's warm. Ever since diving in a lake to save a mother and daughter last week, he's been a snotty, shivering mess. He's on the mend now, but he's, for some reason, still having a hard time keeping his body temperature normal. Sam left a thermometer by his bed, along with tissues, Gatorade, and cold medicine, none of which he's going to use besides the juice because that stuff is for bitches.

Sam and Cas left earlier to go search for some demon dick. He's been half-asleep for a bit now, so the details are fuzzy, even though his brother did do his whole "so, get this" bit for the angel. He doesn't really want to think about a hunt, to be honest. It feels nice taking a break, even though he has a pit of guilt in his stomach the size of Texas. Sam may be twenty-six years old, but Dean doubts he will ever stop panicking when his brother is out of his sight.

He is sitting up in bed and halfway through an episode of "Doctor Sexy, MD" when something hard smacks him across the side of the face.

Dean's vision goes black before he has time to protest.

* * *

"Cas, what are you doing?"

Sam is walking back to the Impala after paying for gas when he notices Cas is upside down in the backseat. His head is on the floor, his feet are touching the back window glass, and his eyes are closed. He seems to be meditating or in deep thought, but it's the middle of the day, and people could potentially see this awkward angel doing something very weird.

Cas creaks open his eyes. "Listening."

Sam raises his eyebrows and gets in the car. "Oh, like to Angel Radio?"

Cas nods and then shuts his blue orbs again. The other angels are reporting a disturbance, one of a great magnitude. There are conferences about a missing man, approximately thirty years old, who was supposedly captured by a demon. Angels talk about the missing all the time. Since there is a massive magnitude of them, it is easy to occupy their free time searching for the missing. However, it's the demon part that keeps catching Cas's attention.

He and the younger Winchester are hunting a demon matching its description.

Dean is also thirty years old.

"Sam, I think we have a problem."

* * *

The ice-cold blade slices his flesh.

Dean recoils and starts to thrash as much as the chains tied to his wrists and ankles will let him. Hell. That's all he's thinking of. He remembers the souls he's tortured, how he would do anything his master, Alistair, commanded him, and how he completely lost a piece of himself that he will never regain. He remembers how much he let himself and his brother down. He remembers how he died and went to Hell and turned into this master. And he remembers last year when he received three broken ribs and a cracked cheekbone because of Alistair.

His breathing is shallow. His chest is on fire. His eyes feel like they're being pried open. He won't let tears fall, even though that's what it seems like is going to happen soon enough. Bile rises in the back of his throat, threatening to expel his stomach contents all over the place. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, which is about to burst with fear and anxiety. It's stupid because he doesn't even have enough energy to call him an asshole or a dick.

As he exhales and inhales a bit too quickly, blue dots dance around his blurred vision.

"Had enough yet, Dean?"

* * *

Sam and Cas are speeding to the warehouse.

Cas can't help but notice how erratic the younger of the two brothers is acting.

Sam is clutching on to the steering wheel. His knuckles are white. He is adorned with what Dean told Cas is "bitch face number fourteen." It's the one he makes when he's focused and angry, all at the same time. Cas doesn't exactly understand emotions, but he can assume that Sam would be both focused and angry. They received confirmation that the demon that took Dean went by the name of Lysander, which Sam said was dumb name.

Whatever "dumb" means.

Sam barely thinks to put the car in park and turn it off. He jumps out immediately and storms his way to the front door. His chest is going to erupt, and he can hardly contain his emotions. He's so fucking angry and scared that he's going to throw up. Cas runs up behind him, and they enter the creepy ass warehouse together. Inside, it's dark and freezing. Sam can actually see his breath when he exhales. It's a typical warehouse, full of steel, metal, and other things that make this place look like it's own little city as opposed to a place of business.

In the corner, though, there's a flame.

Cas and Sam sprint back there, and that's when they find him.

Lysander, whatever the hell kind of name that is, is in the middle of carving into Dean's skin. Sam's anger bubbles over the top, and the fight instantly breaks out. Sam couldn't even take a look in his brother's eyes because he isn't sure of what he will see, so he and Cas do their job. Before they're even aware of it, Lysander is tied up over a devil's trap, and Cas is untying Dean.

His brother doesn't have the strength to stand up, so he crumples to the floor. Sam lets Dean's bloody and exhausted body sag on top of his lap. His lip is busted open, there's several knife gashes, and the older Winchester's right wrist is sickening blue. Sam gulps. His brother's breathing is short and sharp, and snot is steadily dripping down his flushed cheeks. Fever. The illness Dean was recovering from has probably gotten a thousand times worse after all of this, plus the dampness and coldness of the building.

Sam doesn't care though. He's just happy his brother is alive.

* * *

Sam doesn't have a choice.

He has to drive Dean to the hospital. His fever is too high (even though he doesn't have a thermometer, so he isn't completely sure of the actual numbers), his wrist is disgusting purple, and he's pretty certain he may have an infection from the cuts. Sam doesn't have the resources nor the expertise to deal with the illness and the broken bone. Cas balls up his trench coat and places it under Dean's head as he lies down on his lap. He rubs his left arm carefully and gently. Cas doesn't know what worry feels like, but he assumes this is it.

"How's he doing?"

Cas glances down at the sleeping Winchester. "He's asleep."

He guesses that's good enough.

* * *

They've been at the hospital for just over three hours, long enough for the doctors to explain that Dean is suffering from hypothermia and pneumonia. Long enough for them to learn his right wrist is broken in two places. Long enough for Sam to have had three panic attacks, one of which resulted in him tossing his cookies in a hospital bathroom that smelled terribly of antiseptic.

Sam hasn't left Dean's side, and he doesn't intend to. His brother is sleeping peacefully beneath a heating blanket and with a nasal cannula in his nose. He went with a blue cast for his brother; he wasn't really in the mood to pick something Dean would hate at the time. Sam feels so incredibly sick to his stomach that he isn't sure what he's supposed to do. The worry is still full blown, and he can't wrap his mind around anything. Cas, who is sitting in the corner of the room, hasn't said a single word and has adorned a permanently pinched expression on his face.

"S'mmy..." Dean slurs.

Sam scoots forward in his chair and grabs his brother's uninjured hand. "I'm here, Dean. You're okay."

"St'p worryin' about me, bitch."

For the first time in these agonizing hours, Sam smiles.

* * *

_Five days later_

"Sam, I can do it myself!" Dean shouts.

His younger brother and Cas have been mother henning him to death, and he's just about had enough. He can't go to the bathroom without Cas watching over him, he can't research without Sam breathing down his neck, and he can't sleep without both of them checking to see if he's comfortable multiple times. He's in the middle of trying to button up his blue and grey flannel, and Sam's insisting on buttoning it for him.

"Dude, your fingers are still swollen. Let me help."

"I'm gonna kill you..." he grumbles, but he moves his hands anyway. His wrist hurts, but it's manageable, especially with the amazing pain meds the doc gave him.

"Dean, you should not kill your brother. That is a sin," Cas announces, popping out of nowhere with grocery bags in hand.

"Jesus, Cas! I told you not to poof up like that!"

Cas shrugs. "I am not 'poofing' anywhere, Dean."

Dean sits back down on his bed, which has been made, by Sam of course, for the first time since he's been back from the hospital. It's only six, and he's starving. He's running a bit of a fever, but the antibiotics are helping nicely, too. His muscles and head hurt, but it's nothing like the nightmares. Since he's been knocked out nearly constantly, he's been suffering from tragic nightmares, ones where his own father and brother are torturing him instead of that demon dick.

"You ready for breakfast?" Sam asks him.

Dean removes himself from his thoughts and grins. "Did you buy any pie?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** I am really sorry if this sucked, guys. I swear I tried, but it was out of my element, and it is extremely difficult for me to write torture fics. I'm not very good at writing fights either, so I'm really sorry to have skipped that part. However, I really, honestly hope you all enjoyed it! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! I look forward to hearing any comments about this fic and to getting more requests!


	12. South of Eden

**Author's Note:** I'm sad to say, but I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or of its characters.

* * *

Hey, look at this! Here, it's Saturday, and I have a new one-shot to post! In case some of you don't remember, I informed you guys a few days ago that I might not be able to update Saturday. Well, I'm here! This was actually written on February 26, so it's two days old! Like I told you all before, I try to update this daily. A few times, I have had pre-written chapters, but this was the first time I've written three in one day. On Thursday, after my homework, I cranked out three requests! I'm kind of impressed with myself. I normally can't write for that long.

Anyway, this is South of Eden's request. "The brothers (and if you want to add anyone else, all the power to you), have hunted something that brings old injuries back, in this case it chose Dean's BBQed heart. Not permanent, but now Sam must take care of Dean and all the symptoms that come with while they wait for the effects to fade or a cure to be had."

"Faith" is one of my favorite episodes! It has been since I started the show. Believe it or not, for the first few episodes, I was actually in love with Sam. I honestly thought Dean was a jerk in the beginning. It didn't take long for me to sort of "switch sides." Don't get me wrong, I love both boys, but I'm just more partial to Dean. "Faith" is an episode I can watch over and over again and never get sick of because it's so interesting. There's not an episode like it that I can think of.

Anyway, I love this request, South of Eden!

I decided to set this in season six right after Sam gets his soul back in "Appointment in Samara."

* * *

South of Eden

* * *

_Day One – December 16, 2010_

Sam's own heart is about to explode.

He's been waiting for twelve hours for Dean to awaken. Twelve hours. This is coming from the man who can sleep for four or five hours in two days and still be completely fine. Dean doesn't really have to get a deep sleep as long as he rests throughout the day; he's never been that kind of person. Sam, on the other hand, has to sleep nearly eight hours a day to be functional, which Dean has known ever since Sam was a toddler.

Yesterday, there was a witch. Yesterday, the witch re-fried Dean's heart and re-broke Sam's wrist. Yesterday, the witch informed them that the curse would wear off in a week, if they survive. Undoubtedly, Sam wasn't worried. Sure, the bone hurt during the shattering, and he nearly bawled his eyes out with the agony it caused. But, Dean's injury was long forgotten; it was like it never even happened. Sam entirely forgot what it felt like to worry about Dean's every movement, afraid he would keel over any second.

And, now, today is here, and Dean is violently ill.

It isn't so much of an injury, Sam realizes. It's just like cancer, though. It's bone-deep, and it hurts every part of the body. No fever and no snot, but something so awful that Sam can't even imagine it. His brother was fine for the first few minutes after the curse; it was Sam that couldn't contain himself. Dean spent the last time he had healthy for a week panicking over his brother. No surprise there. Sam just wants his brother to wake up.

It's scaring the shit out of him.

Then, Dean stirs from beneath his three layers of covers.

"Sam..." he mumbles, cracking open his exhausted eyes.

The younger Winchester jumps at his name. No "Sammy." Dammit.

"What's going on, bro? How are you feeling?"

"C-Cold," is all Dean's mutters. He rolls on to his side, his chest swollen and feeling four times too big. He curls himself into a tight ball, or as tight as his sore muscles will let him, and begins to whimper quietly. Dean doesn't really feel any shame like he normally would; all he feels is mind-numbing coldness. He wants to sit in a scalding hot shower with a heated blanket draped over him. He wants to be in the Sahara. He wants Sam to help him.

Sam doesn't say another word. He lifts the blankets and crawls in behind Dean. His body is quivering so hard that it has to be excruciating. He, mindful of his aching chest, wraps his arms gently around Dean's middle. Sam scoots as close as he can to him, and he smiles when Dean's little cries finally stop. He's back to sleep in an instant.

* * *

_Day Two – December 17, 2010_

"Hey, stay awake, Dean," Sam says, softly shaking his shoulder.

Dean is sitting in the bathtub and leaning heavily against the wall. It's been nearly three days since he's cleaned himself, so Sam figured they were bound to make this adventure some time. He's picked out clothes for him to wear after his bath that are his and two sizes too big for Dean, but they're extremely warm and should help him feel better. His older brother pleads and begs for a shower, but Sam knows he can barely stand up, let alone stay standing for a shower.

"'m awake."

"Uh huh." Sam continues rubbing the shampoo in his brother's hair, gently massaging his head.

"You don't have to do this, Sam," Dean says. He feels drugged, and he can't seem to get rid of the chills constantly wracking his body. He's pretty sure he's lost weight, even though it's only been two days. Dean doesn't have the write words to place on this situation, and he doesn't have energy to even think. All he wants to do is sleep, but Sam wanted him to take a damn bath, and here he is: taking a bath and freezing to death.

"Yes, I do," he whispers, grinning sadly as Dean drifts off again.

* * *

_Day Three – December 18, 2010_

Shit...

Dean grips at his chest as his heart weakly bounds and the rhythm fluctuates. He feels it skip beats, and he can't do anything about it. He's Dean fucking Winchester. He fights monsters and takes care of everything thrown his way. He's invincible. But then that Goddamned witch had to go and screw up Sam getting his soul back. Literally not even three days after he gets it back, this happens. Dean hasn't even had time to enjoy the fact that his brother is no longer a robot.

His chest spasms in agony, and the shaking seems to progress. This morning, he tried to hold the remote in his hand to change the channel, but he was shaking so hard that it continuously fell out and on to the floor. He feels so...useless. He wishes he could reverse the clock and have never gone out on that hunt. But he guesses he can't do anything now.

Dean somehow manages to push himself out of bed.

"Shit," he mumbles as he stubs his toe on the edge of the bed.

He scrolls through the dark and pulls back the covers on his brother's bed.

"Wha?" Sam asks sleepily.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy," Dean says, throwing the comforter over himself and Sam. He nestles himself into Sam's heater of a chest and listens to his brother's snores grow louder and louder. For the first time in days, Dean doesn't feel invalid, doesn't feel cold, and actually smiles. Sam throws an unconscious arm over Dean's shoulder and pulls him closer.

He finally rests well.

* * *

_Day Four – December 19, 2010_

"Sam...Stop! Please stop!"

"Here comes the choo choo!

"I friggin' hate you, man."

"Should I try the airplane instead?"

"Screw you, bitch."

"Well, then, you're a feisty _jerk_ today, aren't you?"

* * *

_Day Five – December 20, 2010_

Sam has tears streaming down his own cheeks. He holds Dean as close as he can as his brother sobs openly into his chest. Dean's quivering is out of control, no matter how many layers he wears or if he's under the heated blanket Sam had to purchase yesterday. He doesn't know where the tears came from from either of them, but he just knows he wants it to stop.

Dean never cries. He's been to Hell and back, he's been in a car accident that nearly killed him, he's broken countless bones, had numerous concussions, lost his mother, and had to almost bury his own brother. Sam can only think of a handful of times Dean's actually cried. Sure, he's teared up and a few have fallen; he probably wouldn't be human if those instances hadn't happened. But, this is one of the only times Sam, in all his twenty-seven years on this earth, has seen his big brother cry as much as this.

His t-shirt is soaked.

Dean is shivering and crying so hard that Sam keeps swallowing back the nausea.

This isn't fair.

He's going to lose his brother.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

* * *

_Day Six – December 21, 2010_

Sam isn't sure he can make it through another day.

Dean has been glued to him, and Sam doesn't bother to leave the bed anymore. Dean sleeps curled up on top of him to share the body heat. Sam can feel the irregular heartbeat. At one point a few years ago, Sam would have found it comforting to be this close to his brother and have literally all of the walls dropped between them, but, now, it's terrifying. Sam hasn't actually slept in days. He doesn't know how much longer Dean can hold on.

He hasn't been conscious since yesterday afternoon. Not even a cracked open eye. Nothing.

Until now.

Dean rolls over quickly, announced and shocking the hell out of Sam, and vomits over the side of the bed. It's virtually just a bunch of phlegm since he hasn't eaten in days. Sam rubs his back until the heaves stop and the shaking takes over once more. Dean collapses into him and places his face on his chest. Tears flow from his bloodshot eyes, and Sam's heart pings.

He can't handle this anymore.

* * *

_Day Seven – December 22, 2010_

It's nearly nine at night, and it's the last night of the curse.

Sam would jump for joy if it weren't for the fact that Dean won't talk anymore. He won't open his eyes. He won't drink water. He won't do anything. It makes him sick to see him so lifeless. Sam's spent most of this time just holding his brother like he's going to die. He may die, though, Sam realizes. None of this is going away, and he keeps praying and praying and praying that the curse will go away since it is day seven. It's been too long since he's seen his brother happy.

Dean is flat on his back, but he's holding Sam's hand and close enough for Sam to feel his heartbeat.

It's slow. Dangerously slow. Sluggish, even. Dean's face is grey, and beneath his eyes is entirely purple. He's wearing Sam's dark blue hoodie, and all he can imagine is having to remove his brother's dead corpse from this bed. He pictures continuing hunting without his best friend by his side. Tears swell up in Sam's eyes, and they fall immediately. There's no sense in hiding anything. Tomorrow is Judgment Day anyway.

For now though, Sam listens to his brother's irregular and sharp breathing.

It's the only way he knows he's still there.

* * *

_December 23, 2010_

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam's eyes instantly pop open. He wastes no time and jumps out of bed. His brother is standing at the small table in their hotel room, freshly showered and shaved. Sam wraps his arms around his brother's slender frame and rests his face in his shoulder. Oh God. Oh God. He can't explain the feeling. He's so fucking happy that he's here. He's breathing. He made it.

"Dude, I thought I said no chick flick moments?"

Sam just keeps hugging.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, South of Eden! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	13. moira4eku

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television wonderful show_ Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Happy birthday, Jensen! I felt like I had to get that out of the way first. He's 37 today, and he still looks so gorgeous! On a semi-unrelated note, I have pictures of the guys and the kids on my phone, and I flipped through one yesterday with Tom, JJ, and Shep on Halloween! I smiled so hard at that one. Jensen and Jared's kids are adorable! Also, have you guys seen the picture where Misha, Jensen, and Jared all swap characters and take a picture? Look it up if you haven't!

Anyway, now that I'm done wishing one of my favorite actors happy birthday, I have another request to write. This one is for moira4eku! "I'd love to see a teen Dean with a supernatural illness where the family does not know at first that is what it is or a curse made by a witch!" I'm thinking this one will be about a witch, since we all know how much our Dean loves witches. Plus, it may give an insight about why he hates them so much.

Just an FYI, all of the witch information I have in here is false and not on the show!

Dean is 14, and Sam is 10.

* * *

moira4eku

* * *

_August 20, 1993_

"Up and at 'em, boys!" John Winchester shouts, clapping his hands together.

His youngest, Sam, is lying completely sideways in his bed, his socked feet dangling over the edge. John can already tell that his son's normally messy hair is destroyed, even though he's sprawled out on his stomach. His eldest, Dean, is buried beneath his comforter to where he can only see the blond spiked bits of his hair. Sam likes to take up as much room as possible in the bed, while Dean tends to curl up and save space.

John gently shakes Sam's shoulder, rubbing his back a bit. He's in a fantastic mood this morning, and he figures it would be nice to get the boys out of the apartment for once. You know, maybe take them to breakfast or to Walmart to get a few new clothes. Sam's growing like a weed and needs new pants constantly because of how tall he's getting, and Dean's shirts are starting to shrink from how many times they worn and washed them.

Sam squirms and cracks open a single eye at his father. "Sleep," he mumbles, throwing an arm over his face.

"I know you're tired, Sammy, but let's get up. We can go get pancakes if you want," John offers. Breakfast food in general is his youngest's weakness; Sam always begs for him to make breakfast when he comes back from a hunt. By the time he returns, there's usually only a bowl worth of cereal left, even though John fully stocks the pantry and cupboards before he leaves. He understands right now, though. Sam and Dean, especially Sam, are both growing boys.

Sam sits straight up. "I'm awake." He rubs his eyes with this knuckles and yawns, pulling on a pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt. He took a shower last night, so he doesn't really have to do anything other than brush his hair and teeth and put deodorant on. Maybe he'll spray some of Dean's cologne, too. He hasn't quite decided yet. "Can I please have five minutes to finish getting ready, sir?" Sam asks carefully. His father seems oddly cheerful, but he's just testing the waters. It all depends on this next response.

"Sure thing, Sammy," John replies, smiling. "Wake your brother up while you're at it."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, watching his father leave their bedroom.

Sam jumps on top of Dean's bed and bounces on his brother's back. "Wake up, Dean! Dad says we're going to get pancakes!" Since his dad's in a good mood for once, Sam takes the opportunity to actually be optimistic. The day will hopefully go smoothly, and maybe they can actually go a few hours without wanting to rip each other apart. Sam and John don't really get along that well; Sam responds much better to his older brother.

Who, for some reason, is not waking up.

Sam pounces again, waiting for some kind of reaction. "Dean! C'mon!" He never sleeps like this. He's up at the crack of dawn everyday to cook and pack Sam's lunch for school. Sam knows when his brother falls asleep, and it's not until around midnight, which means he only averages five hours of rest a night. He's always restless. Sam can't remember a time his older brother has gotten a full night's sleep. Between school and having to hold down the fort, there really is no relaxation time for the fourteen year old.

Dean doesn't budge. He's completely limp beneath Sam's touch.

"DAD!"

* * *

"Listen, Bobby. I already told you. I have no idea what's wrong with him!"

"Well, you had to 'uv done somethin'."

John scrubs a hand down his face. "I didn't do anything. He won't wake up, and he's burning up! Sam can't even get him awake."

"So you're sayin' that Dean is practically comatose?"

John proceeds to throw his hands up in the air. "Yeah, I guess that's what I'm saying." A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach is sliding up his throat. He starts to chew on the skin of his thumb. He doesn't care what Bobby thinks right now, unless he has an answer. He doesn't need to hear any more garbage about how bad of a father he is or how he is mentally abusing both of his sons by rarely physically being there.

"I'm comin' down there."

"Bobby, no. Sam and I can handle this."

"Sam is ten years old, John. Maybe you should worry about him losing his brother instead of traumatizing him any further."

* * *

The younger Winchester hasn't left his brother's side.

Sam has spent the day curled up in bed next to his brother. It's weird. He's burning with fever and completely unconscious; he hasn't even moved from his previous sleeping position. Not once. And Sam's heart is beating out of control in his chest. He's sick with worry, and he really wants his dad and Uncle Bobby to figure out what is wrong. Sam starts to think about all of the things he will miss about Dean. He plays with him, helps him with his homework, and is his only source of entertainment besides school. Sam's eyebrows rise as he ponders about the fact that he doesn't even know how to do his own laundry.

What's he going to do if Dean doesn't wake up?

Dad's going to leave him here all by himself, and he'll have no one.

Bobby is pawing through documents about witches on the Winchesters' couch.

John has since retired to his bedroom, exhausted from consoling a crying Sam, who is so panicked about his brother dying that he threw up. When Bobby goes to check on all three, Sam is curled up next to his brother with tearstain tracks down his flushed cheeks. Bobby's heart breaks for the little boy, and he hopes, more than anything at the moment, that Dean will pull through. He's not getting Jack shit at the moment.

Until he flips through his latest witch journal, one that a buddy gave to him about encounters.

"Balls."

* * *

"A Coprasi?"

Bobby nods. "You and Dean ran across one on your hunt two days ago."

"And what, they cause comas?"

"That and an unexplainable 'supernatural' illness, hence the fever."

John sighs. "Well, how do we get rid of it?"

"That's where the tricky part comes in."

* * *

_Four days later_

"Dean, give me the remote!" Sam shouts.

The elder Winchester gives in and throws the remote control to Sam, who is currently pitching another bitch fit. He wants to watch _Full House._ Go figure. He leans back against the couch and exhales loudly. His head is killing him, and his fever has yet to break. He curls deeper beneath the comforter he dragged into the living room and snuggles his head into the pillow. His eyes are drooping closed as he watches Danny and Joey argue about how they made a pact to be best friends for life.

"How are you doing, bud?" John asks Dean, clasping his shoulders gently from behind the couch.

Dean shrugs.

He knows Dean hasn't been feeling very well the past few days. The curse really took a toll on him, and he's been going stir crazy from not having enough energy to move from one room to the other. John feels terrible enough, especially since he is responsible for Dean being taken down by this curse by making him go hunting with him in the first place. So, he's decided it's best to stick around until he's up and running at least somewhat.

Nausea builds in Dean's stomach until it's in his throat. He doesn't have enough time or strength to dart to the bathroom, so he resorts to leaning over the side of the couch and vomiting everywhere. It splatters all over the coffee table's legs, and Dean winces. Sam immediately sprints over to his brother from his chair and rubs his back. John grabs paper towels and washrags. He clearly did not have the opportunity to digest his toast. John cringes in disgust.

Gross.

* * *

"Will Dean feel better tomorrow?" Sam asks. He's sitting at the other end of the old leather couch with his hand in a bowl of Cheetos, crunching loudly.

John shrugs and continues flipping channels. "I hope so."

The two Winchesters are relaxing for the night. It's on seven, so John has no problems with Sam staying up for another hour to an hour and a half. His son did well today, anyway. He's never seen Sam act so grown up and take care of his brother like that. He made Dean take medicine and helped comfort him during the puking episode of this morning.

Just as John finds a movie on TV, Dean waddles out with a blue blanket draped over his shoulders. His hair is matted to his forehead, and he's wobbly on his feet. John scoots over to end of the couch and pats the spot next to him. Dean obliges and takes a seat between his brother and his father. His father puts his arm around him and pulls him close, so close that Dean leans his face into John's stomach. For the first time during this entire ordeal, he feels safe.

He knows his dad doesn't mean to be a jerk sometimes. It's the stress of the job.

Dean takes this moment to place is socked feet on Sam's lap. Sam starts to fiddle with his socks.

"How're you feeling, kiddo?" John inquires.

Dean smiles into his father's stomach. "Never better."

* * *

**Author's Note:** To clarify, I actually love John's character; I just think he is, more often than not, a terrible father. It hurt me when he died, mainly because you could see how broken up Dean was. That's one thing I love about his character; he's described as the "soldier boy," but he will do anything to make his father happy, and, even though it can be thought of as an abusive relationship between the two, that's what matters. Anyway, I hope you liked this, moira4eku! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	14. chillywinterbreeze (I)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the best television show in the world (_Supernatural) _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you so much for the positive feedback! You're amazing! =)

chillywinterbreeze requested: "Dean gets shot or stabbed in the shoulder, leg, or wherever, and it gets really infected. Sam can't take him to the hospital for some reason, so he and Cas have to take care of him on their own." More mother henning! I love it!

Can you guys believe Jensen turned 37 yesterday?! He's grown up so much and yet so little at the same time!

I'm going to set this in season five, once again.

* * *

chillywinterbreeze (I)

* * *

**Cas**

_April 6, 2010_

Humans are funny specimens. Not in a sense that they are actually humorous and can make others laugh, but in a way that Cas no longer questions why humanity is so rough. He's sitting at the mini kitchen table in Sam and Dean Winchester's tiny hotel room, reading a newspaper. Actually, he's pretending to skim through it; truth is, he doesn't read anything. He knows all news from what Dean calls "Angel Radio." It's the angel's way of having an open communication.

Sam's face is pinched, and he's angrily typing on his computer. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he seems to be in some form of deep concentration. Cas is sure he's worried and quite possible mad, but he's reassured him several times that Dean will, indeed, be okay. He's checked his temperature, cleaned his wound, and removed the bullet long ago. He's unsure of Cas solely because he was told to no longer heal humans. Punishment was on his mind, so Cas opted to stay here and wait out the infection with both brothers.

"Are you angry with me?" Cas questions.

Sam looks up from his laptop, but he doesn't say anything. There's a heavy scowl plastered all over his face, and he seems...pissed, or at least that's what Dean calls it. He rolls his eyes and then glances back down at his laptop and continues searching, most likely for simple curses for infected bullet wounds. Sam told him last night that they're down to their last lump of cash, which consisted of three twenties and a couple fives, whatever those are.

"I did not do anything wrong," he says to Sam.

Sam scoffs. "Yeah, you didn't do anything wrong, Cas. Let's just let Dean die. How about that?"

They can't go to a hospital. Dean's name, fingerprints, and pretty much everything to identify who he truly is, despite the fake aliases and credit cards, will be there, especially since the shape shifter issues from the last few years. Cas leans back in his chair and places his hands on the table, fiddling with the newspaper Sam bought at least a week ago. The news is beyond old to Cas, who typically learns events the split second they first occur in.

"He will not die. I can assure you of that."

Sam doesn't seem convinced. "Don't you see him, Cas?" He gestures over to the lump hidden beneath two comforters, one from each bed. He's asleep on his back, his injured leg elevated by three pillows underneath the covers with sweat beading off his forehead. The last time Dean was conscious was this morning, and it's now half past ten at night. That part does "worry" Cas, (he doesn't really know what it feels like; he's just assuming) but he can tell from his senses and other angels on "Angel Radio" that the older Winchester will be alright.

Dean stirs right as Cas thinks this. He moans and grumbles, and Sam immediately jumps up, sprinting over to the bed. Cas stands up and walks over there with him, even though it's obvious from how Sam flinches away from him that he doesn't want him there. Dean mumbles something unintelligible and starts to sit up, swatting at his face with his hands softly. Sam grabs them and squeezes tightly, as if he will never see his brother move again.

"How're you feeling, bro?" Sam questions quietly.

Cas just wonders what a "bro" is. Perhaps it's just the shortened version for brother? Kind of like "Cas" is for Castiel. Sam and Dean are brothers.

Dean doesn't respond.

His fever is through the roof when Cas checks it. He learned how to take temperatures with actual thermometers from Dean, who taught him when Sam had the flu about a year ago. Yes, Cas can read internal body temperatures just by looking at the person, but Dean insists on him at least trying to act normal. Cas doesn't know why it matters that he's a usual human because he's not a human. He's an Angel of the Lord.

"The infection's getting worse," Sam says, biting his lower lip.

Two days ago, they were hunting a Wendigo in the woods. He guesses one could call it the "wrong place and wrong time" scenario, one with Sam, Dean, and Cas all running from gun shots. A man, apparently hunting for something probably like bear or deer, started to shoot at them and telling them to get off his property. One of the flying bullets penetrated Dean's lower right leg. Cas refused to fly them back due to the trouble he's been getting into, so the two of them were forced to carry an extremely injured Dean back to the motel room.

It hasn't been easy. Sam taught Cas how to remove a bullet from tissue and muscle. Sam says Dean should probably go get a cast on his lower leg because the bullet went through bone. But, he also told him that it could heal on its own as long as Dean doesn't put pressure on it. That's been the least of their worries, though. Dean's wound is infected, causing him to be riddled with fever and highly delirious. Cas's (or Jimmy's) heart pumps faster with each look at the ailing Dean.

"Is he going to be okay?" Cas questions. He knows nothing about the extent of bullet wounds to the lower leg. He just knows that Dean won't die because God won't let him. He gets he's on "Team Free Will," but he still has that remaining ounce of faith buried inside of him that he's sure will never subside. He's an Angel of the Lord; he has to remember that.

His faith, however, is mostly in the Winchesters.

Sam scrubs a hand down his face tiredly. "I don't know."

* * *

**Sam**

_April 11, 2010_

"Dean, c'mon. You need to wake up."

"No, Sammy..."

Sam rolls his eyes. "It's Sam, Dean. S-A-M, not Sammy. Let's get you cleaned up."

Dean creaks bloodshot eyes open at his little brother. "No," is all he says.

The younger Winchester sighs heavily, rubbing his tired eyes. It's been a week since the incident, and Dean has only taken a bath on that first night. He's stinky from the sweating and the average 102.5-degree fever he's been running continuously. Every time Sam checks his wound, though, it looks better and better. It's swollen and clearly still irritated, but what wouldn't be with a bullet wound? There will be one hell of a scar from the basic surgery he and Cas had to perform, but he should make a full recovery.

Sam can't even process what was going through his mind days ago. He was panicking and freaking out so much that sleep was impossible, and he was starting to get sick himself. Since Dean has started eating, interacting, and being snarky again, he's cooled down and realized that his brother will live. He's making strides toward recovery, but, undoubtedly, he's got a long road of crutch use ahead of him, which simply means no hunting.

"Quit being difficult." He hoists Dean into a sitting position. Due to the infection, he figures Dean's probably lost about fifteen pounds and a shit ton of muscle mass. He's weak and wobbly as Sam has him wrap his arm around his shoulder and hobble to the bathroom. Dean moans as sweat starts to visibly show on his forehead. Sam places him on the toilet seat and takes a hard look at his brother. His hair is matted to his forehead, and he's crumpled over in pain.

Maybe a bath isn't such a good idea.

Still, though, he smells, and he may get sicker if they don't just buck up and do it.

He removes Dean's filthy t-shirt and sweatpants. His lower leg is super tender to the touch, and Dean winces every time something even grazes it. Sam has been contemplating the hospital a lot the past few days, but they can't risk it. That would put his brother at even more risk. He has a plan that will work as soon as the swelling in his leg goes down a bit and the infection clears a bit more, which is half the reason why a bath is definitely necessary.

The water is lukewarm so it doesn't bother his leg too much, but Dean is clearly freezing. He folds his arms over his chest, and Sam hears his teeth chattering against each other. The quivering begins, and Sam notes the tears forming in his brother's eyes. Sam continues washing his hair, and a lump forms in his throat when Dean doesn't protest. He should be saying something along the lines of "It's my leg that's hurt, not my arms, you bitch." Instead, he's silent and has his eyes shut tightly, lines of pain evident.

"Why is he naked?"

Sam nearly jumps out of his own skin, his heart pumping rapidly and his breath caught in his throat.

"Jesus Christ, Cas!"

Cas is standing in the bathroom with a brown paper bag in his hands. He is sporting a clueless, yet confused expression on his face as he tries to figure out what is going on in here. Sam's pulse begins to return to normal, but he's still freaked out. He hates it when Cas poofs in and out of everywhere. Sometimes, he wishes the angel would take his brother's advice and develop more human-like characteristics, ones in which teleporting is not an option.

"He needs a bath," is all Sam says before he rubs soap on the washrag.

"Oh, okay," Cas replies. "Can I help?"

Sam shakes his head and laughs. "No, thanks, dude. I think I got it." He motions over his shoulder to an embarrassed Dean, who has resorted to covering up his private parts with his hands and staring sheepishly at the wall. He's leaning back heavily and is already exhausted, and Sam wants to get this painful process over with as quickly as possible.

"I understand," Cas says before he poofs away again, presumably to the bedroom less than three feet away.

Sam grins and looks at his brother. "He really needs to stop doing that."

The older Winchester glances over and grins for the first time in a week. "Yeah."

* * *

**Dean**

_April 15, 2010_

He wakes up with his hand grasping Cas's white button up.

"What the hell?" he grumbles sleepily, pushing himself into a sitting position. He takes a look at his exhausted little brother resting on the next bed over and really wonders what happened last night. He rubs his stubbly face and shivers, pulling the comforter up over his chest. Cas pops open his eyes and blears up at him, causing Dean's eyebrows to furrow. "What?"

Cas shrugs. "You cuddled me."

Now, Dean's eyes widen as he crosses his arms. "What? No I didn't."

"You did indeed hold me close in your arms as a way of showing love and affection."

"What are you, Urban Dictionary?" Dean remarks. This time, he goes to get out of bed, but Cas grabs his arm.

Cas shakes his head. "You do not need to be out of bed."

"It's been over a week, dude. Plus, I have this cast now." He motions down toward the bulky white material coating his lower leg. "It'll be fine."

Sam figured out how to make casts on the Internet. Dean, for can't be more thankful and appreciative for this because it shields his leg from so much. Sure, he still has pains every now and then, but not every single movement is agonizing, and it makes the crutches much easier to use. He isn't as tempted to put weight on his leg, and he's learning to adjust to having it on. After all, it will probably be that way for the next four to six weeks.

"Maybe you should wait for Sam to wake up."

Dean glances back over at his brother, who is sprawled out on top of the covers. His nose and cheeks are flushed red, and he can see the sweat soaking the collar of his flannel shirt from here. He figures Sam must have actually worried himself sick (again), and he knows it's his job to take care of his baby brother. Dean settles back down into bed and waits patiently for his sick brother to wake up so he can return the favor from these past nine days.

Because that's what big brothers do.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, chillywinterbreeze! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	15. Averystorm (I)

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the television show amazing_ Supernatural_ or any of its characters. I wish I did, though...

* * *

Thank you for your continued support, reviews, requests, and simply for reading!

Averystorm requested: "All I really want is a good old fashioned Sam taking care of sick Dean while Dean whines and complains and insists that he doesn't need to be taken care of. I know, I'm boring, sorry lol. I just really love brothers taking care of each other, it'll always be my favorite fanfic to read. You can make it any age and any illness you want, though I tend to prefer teen!chesters and adult Sam and Dean over Sam and Dean as kids, and I usually prefer reading about temporary illnesses like cold or flu rather than something more permanent like cancer or asthma." This is my favorite kind of fanfiction, too!

I am going to set this in season two.

* * *

Averystorm

* * *

_January 13, 2007_

"Dude, get the hell up!" Sam shouts. He glances down at his wristwatch. Half past seven. Fantastic.

The older Winchester grumbles and scrubs a hand down his stubbly cheeks, blinking at the brightness of the motel room. Sam's hand is on his shoulder, and he shakes it away, rolling back over and smushing his face into the flat pillow. To add affect, he pulls the covers over his head. It's far too early outside; he can tell because there's no sun outside, just the lights from the lamps. However, he figures that something must be wrong because Sam _never_ wakes up first.

"Seriously?"

Sam snatches the warm cocoon that Dean bundled himself in away; he immediately curls in on himself to hide the shivering. He's had the heater on all night, and, in return, Sam himself has sweated through three t-shirts. Dean fell asleep in one of his brother's sweatshirts and pair of plaid pajama pants. They need to get on the road as soon as possible, and Dean should be ready wake up by now. Sam tries not to panic just yet.

"Don't wanna, Sammy..." he mumbles, trembling harder. For some reason, he can't keep his body temperature normal, and it's getting really old really fast. Ever since he took that swan dive into a nearly frozen lake two nights ago, it's been getting progressively worse. Bad thing is is that he think Sam is starting to catch on to how he's feeling. His brother is like a ninja; he knows when illnesses are going to strike (often times before Dean himself even figures it out), and he knows exactly how to handle it. He hovers like a freaking bitch to fix him, even when he sneezes. A sneeze for Christ's sake! It's annoying and unnecessary, so Dean stumbles out of bed, ignoring his own plea of not wanting to move.

The younger Winchester watches his brother stiffly pull extra warm clothes out of his duffel and head toward the shower. He huffs and sits back down at the table, flipping his laptop open to do some research. At about two this morning, the police scanner went off for a tiny town in Wyoming that had three missing people. He scrolls through Internet articles, looking for details. Sam wants to lay low for a few days, but he knows Dean, no matter how badly he's feeling, will want that. He at least has to pretend to do research before he hurdles him back into bed.

In the shower, Dean turns the water on as high as it will go, but even his blistering skin doesn't let him feel any relief. He's still shivering violently by the time he throws on an under set of thermals, jeans, a flannel, and grey wool socks. He brushes his teeth and runs a shaky hand through his wet hair before letting the viciously cold air of the room knock the wind out of him. Without hesitating, he throws on Sam's navy blood hoodie and takes a seat across from his little brother, sniffling and trying to stifle a newfound desire to cough.

Sam nearly throws Dean back into bed as soon as his brother lays his head down on the table, pillowing his probably aching skull in his arms. But, Dean would literally kill him if he tried to interfere during these early stages of illness. His brother is so against being ill that he most likely hasn't even acknowledged how poor he's feeling yet. Eventually, he well, though. For now, Sam pretends to not notice the increasing quivers and sniffling and the fact that Dean's wearing his hoodie, something he only snuggles into when he truly doesn't feel well.

"What're you lookin' at?" Dean mumbles, staring up at Sam.

Sam shrugs. "Nothing. So, get this..."

* * *

"Do you need me to pull over?"

The older Winchester shakes his head, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. He leans his head against the cool window and continues to look at his brother. Sam's hair is really getting long, he decides. He crosses his arms over his chest and pulls away from the window. It's freezing shit balls in here, and he hates it. Dean coughs wetly into his coat sleeve. His cheeks feel hot. He watches Sam grab his coat from the backseat and plop it into his lap.

"Shut up and just take it, you jerk," Sam says. Dean obliges by covering himself up with it. "We're pulling over soon."

"No, we're not. We told Bobby we'd be at his place by midnight."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're sick, dude."

Dean proceeds to throw Sam's red coat off of him. "No I'm not."

"Uh huh," Sam mumbles. Just by Dean even taking the jacket in the first place, Sam knows. Sam knew a while ago, to be fair, but he's getting tired of it. This is how Dean's colds turn into pneumonia, his coughs turn into bronchitis, his headaches turn into full-blown migraines, his stomachaches turn into the flu. They all knock him flat on his ass, but he still somehow can't wrap his mind around the idea of resting. He needs a warm bed, NyQuil, and to just sleep it off for a few days.

It really bothers Sam. He knows Dean has a problem with letting other people take control and give him a break, but he should be used to it. Dean's freaking twenty-seven years old, and he's still as stubborn as a toddler. It's hard for both of them, yes, but his brother feels the need to sacrifice himself constantly. He's sick from not listening to Sam by taking off his wet clothes when they got into the Impala that night he dove in a lake to save that little girl. He knows that Dean was embarrassed to be nearly naked, but, Jesus, they're brothers.

"'m comin'," Dean mumbles.

Sam pushes his chest. "No, you're not. Just sit still. I'll be back in a few."

Dean sinks into the worn, familiar leather of his baby's seats. He grabs Sam's coat and throws it over his upper body. His nose is dripping, his head feels like there's a rock concert going on in there, and it hurts to even move an inch. He wants so desperately to sleep, but he can't admit he doesn't feel well to Sam. That will make him mother hen him to death, even though, and don't repeat this either, Dean figures it would feel good to know he doesn't have to move.

Sam returns with two brown paper bags in his hands. Dean pokes around inside of them and finds at least a week's worth of groceries (Winchester style), Tylenol, a heating and cooling pad, three boxes of Kleenex, throat spray, NyQuil, and gobs of other medicinal bullshit. Sam steals the bags from his brother's clutch and throws them in the backseat.

"Take a nap, Dean. We'll be at the motel soon."

* * *

"Wake up, dude," Sam says. He shakes Dean's shoulder for the second time that day.

Dean's eyes pop open; they're bloodshot and glassy with fever. His brother is grasping his coat with so much force that Sam decides to not bother getting it back from him until they're inside. Sam tries to lead Dean inside the motel room by guiding him with his elbow, but Dean just pushes him away, mumbling something about not being five years old. The second he sees the bed, he immediately plops down on it, rolling on to his side with Sam's red coat wrapped around him like a portable heating blanket.

"You need to change your clothes, Dean."

After Sam drags the overfilled duffels into the musty room, he grabs a pair of sweats and a long sleeved shirt for his brother to relax in for the remainder of the day. Sam knows how uncomfortable it is to fall asleep in jeans since both of them are practically professionals at that. Since they're turning in early, and Dean is a bit more cooperative than usual, he knows that he has a very small window of opportunity. Dean is probably only going to remain content with stopping early for a few more minutes.

He forces Dean to roll back over to face him. He's starting to sweat beneath his multiple layers, and he seems completely and totally wiped out. Sam feels genuinely bad for making him get up to change his clothes. However, when he returns, he looks much cozier. Sam's already drawn the duvet on the bed back, and Dean crawls beneath them instantly. Three pillows cushion his head due to his growing congestion. Sam hands the remote to his brother, and Dean clicks on the television. Sam makes him drink NyQuil.

Less than five minutes later, Dean is snoring his ass off.

* * *

_The next day_

"Leave me alone, Sam!" Dean shouts, tossing one of the pillows on his bed in his brother's face.

He's buttoning up his faded jeans, stifling his coughs. Dean's going to be honest here; he feels like utter shit. His head is pounding, and his chest aches. Sam doesn't need to know that, though. He wipes his snotty nose with the back of his hand and sits down on the bed to put on his boots. As he bends down to tie the laces, a wave of dizziness crashes into him. His fingers are shaking, and he's sweating bullets. Dean wants to lie down immediately.

But that's not an option.

"Dean, I'm gonna kick your ass!" Sam semi-shouts, hurting Dean's already aching head. Dean barely slept yesterday, even though he's clearly getting sicker. He refused to eat any soup, take anymore NyQuil than his first dose earlier that day, and even went as far as not using tissues to wipe his nose. He's living in denial, and Sam feels like he could punch the shit out of him. He wants Dean to feel better so they can get this over with fast, but that's clearly not going to happen. It never does with Dean, and that's what really pisses Sam off.

The older Winchester's stomach is revolting and rolling. He puts his head in his hands and coughs harshly. He tries to focus on happy thoughts and concentrates on his own breathing. Suddenly, his stomach contents splatter all over his boots and the carpet below. An ocean of phlegm and light pink chunks litter the surfaces, and he can't stop heaving up more.

Sam rubs his brother's back. He's trembling violently beneath his touch, and Sam bites his bottom lip. "Shh...Dean, it's okay," he coaxes. Like he said earlier, he wishes Dean could just stop being so stubborn. He's way too sick to handle any form of lecturing right now, but, rest assured, he's going to beat his ass later. For now, though, Sam removes his brother's soiled boots and wipes his face with a washcloth. He hands him mouthwash; Dean swishes it around in his mouth, and his lips visibly tremble.

Dean collapses into his brother's chest and rests his head on his shoulder.

Sam tugs back into bed, gives him some NyQuil and Tylenol, and watches him fall asleep.

* * *

_Two days later_

"Here," Sam says gently. He places a tray over his brother's lap and puts a bowl of tomato and rice soup in front of him. "Are you okay to do this yourself this time?" Dean just nods and picks up his spoon. Sam notices the trembling of his hands and arms, and he cringes. His brother is still trying to kick this thing. However, today he seems a bit better. It's late afternoon, and he's been awake more than he's been asleep. The last time he threw up was around midnight, and Sam's incredibly thankful for that.

Sam is heading back to the motel table when Dean grabs his shirtsleeve.

"Listen, uh, Sammy. I'm really sorry for, y'know, getting this bad."

Sam shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, bro. You're sick; you can't control it."

"I could've. I should've just listened to you."

Dean's never really apologized like this before. It's like he finally understands what Sam has been struggling with the entire time he's been alive. Sam grins brightly and crawls into bed next to Dean under the covers. This time, his brother doesn't argue or say anything; he just hands him the remote control. Sam settles on some documentary, and Dean rolls his eyes. And that's when Sam realizes that some things will never change.

And Sam's okay with that.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed, Averystorm! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	16. Guest (I)

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the television wonderful show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you all very much for your continued support and requests!

Guest wants for Dean to have a migraine. I get bonus points if Sam doesn't realize it until it's too late, and Dean's bedridden.

I have to set this one in season four, which is one of my favorite seasons. It's most dynamic, crazy, and interesting to watch. The relationship between Sam and Dean changes so much with Dean suffering from likely PTSD after being in Hell and Sam using his powers. In the earlier seasons, I think it's unlikely for Sam not to notice that his brother doesn't feel well. However, in season four (and a few others), I doubt he would notice period. I almost put this one in season six during Robo!Sam's run on the show, but I decided to add some fluff in here.

* * *

Guest

* * *

_March 28, 2009_

Sam has been waiting for his brother to fall asleep for hours.

He anticipates the moment where his breathing stops hitching and finally evens out. Sam knows all too well when his brother has actually succumbed to his exhaustion, and this isn't it. Dean has been rolled on his side facing the wall since midnight; it's four in the morning now. Sam isn't sure if his brother intends on going to sleep or pulling an all-nighter whilst pretending to be sleeping. He rolls his eyes and clicks loudly on the computer to show his frustration.

Their last hunt was difficult, and it ended with Dean being tossed headfirst into a tombstone. Mama and Papa Ghost-Face didn't really seem too thrilled with him trying to salt and burn their bodies. Dean's hurdling and the thud crack that resulted in it caused Sam to immediately cringe, even though he was in the middle of finishing what they had started. Needless to say, the impact completely knocked his brother out cold. Sam had to keep going, even though it sucked.

Dean has a huge bruise on the side of his head. It's sickening purple beneath his dark blond hair. Sam worried at first because of just how visible it was. No one would be able to miss it. This was nearly a week ago, and, while Sam knows his brother has a concussion, the symptoms have been subtle. Obvious vertigo and dizziness and a bit of a headache, but that's all Sam can really see. His movements have been slow and sluggish, but Sam chalks that up to exhaustion.

Which is why he can't figure out why Dean won't go to sleep.

He guesses he won't be going out with Ruby tonight. He's used to sneaking away every night, sometimes even twice. Sam waits until Dean goes to sleep on top of his covers still in his day clothes, mouth hanging wide open and a book splayed across his chest. He is itching to get some work done tonight, but he also really wants to see Ruby. Usually, they talk, eat, and have a good time while they're preparing for the fight against Lilith.

Sam huffs, closes his laptop, and flops down on his bed.

Why can't Dean just go to sleep already?

* * *

Dean's been lying awake in bed for hours.

His head is pounding with the beat of his slow pulse. It hurts to breathe through his nose, so he resorts to small puffs out his mouth every now and then. His brain feels swollen and three times too big for his skull. He's popped more Advil than he ever has in the past five years he's been alive. Dean's nauseous, feverish, and can't seem to fall asleep to save his life. He even took one of those sleeping pills Sam hides in his duffel.

Nothing works.

He figures Sam won't leave tonight because he hasn't fallen asleep.

Sam thinks he has no idea that he's been sneaking out in the middle of the night. Dean's woken up so many times during his escape. Plus, he's a light sleeper; the click of a door closing is enough to make him return to the land of consciousness. He normally just shakes his head and tries not to let his anger get the best of him and rests. That never works though, and he lies wide-awake and staring at the ceiling. He thinks of all the ways his brother could be harming himself or others, and it's enough to make him queasy.

He doesn't think Sam exactly understands what he is doing. The sneaking around with Ruby has to stop, but his brother thinks he is weak and useless; Dean isn't sure how that makes him feel. On top of being tossed into a grave by some punk ass ghost, he is still dealing with the broken ribs and fractured cheekbone Alistair gave him at their last meet and green. He knows Sam thinks he can't hunt anymore, but that's not the case.

Sam is the problem.

He walks around thinking he's all high and mighty because he's "stronger" than Dean. And it makes Dean feel stupid. Yes, he still does take care of Sam however and whenever he can, but he can't function being the weakest link. To him, neither of them have ever been the weakest link, but that's what the road it seems to be heading down in Dean's mind. He wants to punch his brother straight in the face so badly, but he's going to brood in silence.

Because that's what Winchesters do.

* * *

Dean can't concentrate.

The jack hammering in his skull has yet to stop, and he's so blinded by the spring light outside that he's about to throw up. He harshly swallows the bites of pizza he can feel make their way up his esophagus and runs a shaky hand over his clean-shaven face. He can ban barely pay attention to the lady he and Sam are talking to. Something about something and a demon and blah blah blah. He massages his knees with his hands and rocks back and forth slightly.

Sam glances over next to him and furrows his eyebrows. What is going on with Dean right now? It's like he's got ants in his pants or something. He's been jumpy all morning. Sweat is starting to pool around his dress shirt collar; Sam rolls his eyes. Why does he always have to do this when they're investigating? He's so frustratingly infuriated because of this previous night that even being around Dean is practically unbearable.

"Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Randolph," Sam says, shaking the little old lady's hand.

And, with that, they're on their way to another cemetery for another salt and burn.

Joy to the world.

Sam drives, especially since Dean seems a bit...preoccupied. He puts his head in his hands and rests his elbows on his knees the entire drive, not even bothering with a seatbelt. The younger Winchester is so fed up with Dean's...uselessness...that it's annoying. He feels terrible, honestly like a piece of dog shit, for thinking that about his brother, but, hey, it's true. Dean has been really off his game lately, and Sam's been at the top of his.

By the time they arrive, Dean has resorted to counting in his head. Sure, it hurts because it forces him to concentrate, but the distraction is welcomed in some manner. He isn't sure what he's counting, but he's made it to 1,438. His legs are wobbly and feel like they're made out of lead as they walk to the grave, a shovel slung over his shoulder. Dean drops to his knees before they make it there and cradles his aching head in his hands.

"Dean!" Sam shouts frantically. "What's wrong?" He kneels down next to his brother, figuring he's tired from not sleeping or that this is a result of his minor concussion. The bruise marring his head is angry and nearly black. Sam gulps. "Dean, you gotta talk to me, man," he coaxes when he hears no response. Dean curls tighter in on himself and plugs his fingers in his ears. Sam rubs his brother's back when what seems to be an ocean of red vomit erupts like a volcano all over the ground. He's shivering and shaking heavily.

Shit.

Son of a bitch.

Sam is an idiot. He's an absolute and complete scum of the earth idiot. The sensitivity to light and sound, the nearly constant headache, the dizziness, the blurred vision... Dean has a migraine. It's typical, really. The concussion usually sets them off. Dean's had migraines since he was six, or at least that's what his father told him. He's can normally function well with them, as long as he gets a full night's rest. When left untreated, like this one, it's bad.

Really bad.

Sam carefully wraps his arm around his brother's shoulders and hoists him up. Dean is dead weight as he's dragged to the Impala, where he hunches over and covers his eyes. Sam makes him lean back, grabs a towel from the trunk that he knows won't really smell like anything, and drives, avoiding every bump and pothole possible. When they make it back to the motel, Dean can hardly move because he's in so much pain.

The younger Winchester doesn't bother changing his brother's clothes. He gently puts Dean in his bed, covers him up, gives him medicine, and holds him tightly against his chest. It takes what feels like forever for Dean to relax against him, but he eventually does. He curls his fist around Sam's flannel and snuggles his face into his collarbone. This time, Sam doesn't roll his eyes, doesn't huff, and doesn't act pissy with his brother.

He's really dropped the ball on this one.

* * *

_Two days later_

Dean sleeps for forty-eight hours straight.

He stays curled in a ball on his side; Sam sleeps next to him.

When he does wake up, it's nighttime. He stretches awake like a cat and mumbles something incoherent to himself. His head hurts, but it's nothing like what it was. He goes to rub his aching skull and runs into a warm washcloth on his forehead. The room is dimly lit; there's only a lamp on on the far side of the motel room. He goes to push himself into a sitting position, but a pair of large hands pushes him back down.

"Easy there, tiger," Sam whispers.

He's so thankful that his brother is awake. Watching and waiting is the worst feeling in the world, but not quite as bad as feeling like such a failure to his brother. Dean has taken care of him so many times before, from chickenpox to the flu to broken arms and to, ironically, migraines. He can't believe he was so preoccupied with Ruby that he failed to see how much his brother was struggling. He guesses the migraine would have happened anyway.

But it could have been avoided.

The normal Sam would have noticed a headache immediately. It isn't hard to with Dean. He pulls out sunglasses during a storm and squints way more than usual. He fully intends on making it up to his brother until he starts to feel a little better. He knows the migraine part has faded, but he's still going to be shaky on his feet and a bit sluggish for the next few days. It isn't uncommon for Dean to get a cold or a flu of some sort after this much of a weakening of his immune system.

Sam hopes it doesn't come to that, but he'll be prepared this time if it does.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Guest! Thank you all so much for requested, reviewing, and for reading! =)


	17. Taraneh (I)

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the amazing television show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for your continued support!

I have a quick question for anyone reading this: Is it technically a good thing or a bad thing that the show has been moved to Wednesdays? Its ratings have been pretty nice for being a nearly ten year old show on its tenth season. Is Wednesday a better time, or was Tuesday considered to be the "primetime" slot on the CW? Don't get me wrong, I LOVE the show, and I will watch it no matter what day or time it comes on. I'm just wondering if the change in days is a good or bad thing for the show or if it doesn't mean anything. I guess it really doesn't matter too much though because we're allowed renewed for season eleven! I can't wait until March 18!

Taraneh requested: "So I was thinking if you can write abut a hurt and feverish Dean who is being taken care of by Bobby and Sam. I would really like it to be one of those situations that Dean is badly hurt after saving Sam, but he just cares about a slightly injured Sam and won't listen to anyone until he's sure that Sam is okay. To summarize, we can say I really like him to pull a Dean Winchester and be a hero who is playing through the pain for the others sake!"

I will set this one in early season three.

* * *

Taraneh (I)

* * *

_October 9, 2007_

Dean's arm hurts.

Actually, "hurts" doesn't even cover a fraction of it. It's like someone blew a hole through his arm with a shotgun three feet away from him. His stomach rolls and coils, and he his aching limb tightly. A mixture of blood, dirt, and rain soaks into his eyes; the smell of iron is too strong for his nostrils. He can't tell if he's crying. The pain is so intense that he's sure he's going to pass out. But there's one thing keeping him from doing just that.

Sammy.

His little brother is lying in an unconscious heap a few feet away from him. Dean stands on shaky legs with his arm still cradled toward his chest. Despite the agony he's in, he kneels down in the mud and begins to shake Sam's shoulders. His brother has a huge, nasty gash on his cheek that will probably scar. Bruises are already forming on his pale face. Dean doesn't think he was thrown too hard. He wishes he would wake up. Please, Sammy...

Sam starts to shift on the ground and blearily glances up at the blond man. "D'n..." he slurs.

"Do you think you can move?" Dean asks quietly and gently, not wanting to irritate his probable concussion.

He nods, holding out his hands for his brother to help him up. He feels a little dizzy and nauseous. Sam doesn't really remember what happened to him; all he knows is that they were fighting a ghost. Now, things seem to be fine. Or, so he thinks. He notices Dean is chewing the inside of his cheeks, his arm at an awkward angle. He tries not to think anything of it. They're both soaked, exhausted, and apparently hurt. When Dean hoists him up, he realizes a bigger problem.

"Shit. T-That hurts," Sam mumbles. His right ankle throbs beneath him, and he immediately takes the pressure off of it, hopping wildly on one foot. Dean steadies him with a worried look plastered all over his face, which is losing more and more color with each passing second. "I don't think I can walk, D'n..." he says.

"Do you think it's broken?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't...I don't think so. But I can't, man..."

Dean understands and nods. He doesn't say anything else, which really makes Sam's heart pump louder. His brother is unnaturally quiet and less snarky as they hobble to Impala, Sam's arm draped over Dean's shoulder and hobbling one foot. It's not good to walk on it, even if it is just a sprain. Sam thinks ahead to how much pain he'll be in for the next few days, but he really just hopes Dean, who is helping him sit down, is okay.

"You hurt?" he inquires.

Dean shakes his head and puts his baby into drive.

Sam doesn't need to worry about it.

By the time they arrive at Bobby's a little under two hours later, Dean's arm is throbbing. He's had to stop multiple times at a gas station, claiming he drank too much soda earlier (which was partially true) and had to piss. He had to be careful about how much time he spent vomiting. It was absolutely crucial. He can't let Sam know how badly he's really hurt. He and Bobby need him, and there's no way he's going to let either of them down.

Especially since he only has six and a half months to live.

Dean walks around to the other side of the Impala and helps Sam to Bobby's door.

When the old man opens up for his "adopted sons," he's in awe of what he sees. Sam is hanging around Dean like a koala and limping heavily, his cheek slit open so much that he'll definitely need stitches. Dean looks like he's going to hurl and has bruises littering his face. He takes Sam from Dean, who seems to be fine on his two feet, and gets him to the couch. Bobby pushes the older Winchester down next to him and notices the groans.

Dean can hardly take it anymore. He cradles his arm as best as he can, grimacing and swallowing heavily. Tears swell in the corners of his eyes. His cheeks are burning, and his whole body feels cold and achy. Even his teeth hurt. He tries to position himself to where he can get comfortable, but even the worn leather of Bobby's couch does nothing to help him. He watches through blurry vision as Bobby goes to aid to him first; he points to Sam instead.

"He's hurt worse, Bobby," he says as strongly as he can.

"I'll be alright, Dean. It's just a sprain. Let Bobby check you out."

Dean shakes his head. "No, I swear I'm okay. Please, Bobby," he pleads.

Bobby Singer is no fool. He knows Dean is injured and looks utterly exhausted, but he won't let him touch him without looking over Sam first. Sam has always been that boy's number one priority, so he just kneels down in front of the younger Winchester, carefully removing his boot and then his sock. Sam's ankle is swollen and a little on the purple side. Judging by how it seems, he would guess that Sam is right; it's just a sprain. But it's a rather nasty one.

The older man tends to Sam's gash, but he can't stop glancing over at Dean. The blond Winchester is sitting awkwardly on his couch, not saying a word and staring off to the side. It's really worrisome when Dean Winchester doesn't have something to say. He's spewing out information or sass or something, while Sam is the one who is a bit more reserved about this kind of thing. Judging by Dean's silence, he would assume he's hurt worse than what he's letting on.

"Alright, Dean. You're turn," Bobby says.

Dean snaps out of la-la land. "Uh, no thanks, Bobby," he says, standing up gingerly and carefully to not jar his arm. "I'm good. I'm just gonna go to bed. I'm wiped." He figures that if he can walk, unlike Sam, up there without wincing or being a freaking baby, then he should be fine. He adds the part about being tired to let Bobby know that he's okay.

Sam shakes his head this time. "No, Dean, you really need to get looked at. You look sick, man."

"Thanks, Sam, but I'm not friggin' five."

Once Dean gets up to the bedroom Bobby has for the two of them, he lets tears stream down his flushed cheeks.

* * *

_The next day_

Dean never does manage to fall asleep.

The pain in his arm is so intense. The second he laid down last night, he had to jump back up to vomit once again. Lying around for hours had done nothing to alleviate the agony he's in like he thought it would. In fact, new pains popped up. His back is desperately sore, his head is throbbing, and there's a funny feeling in his stomach that he can't seem to shake. Instead of choosing to lie there in bed any longer, he somehow gets himself up.

He makes his way downstairs, his entire body quivering. He's hiding his arm beneath an oversized sweatshirt of Sam's. He can tell it's swollen, and this way they won't really ask him about it. When he makes his way into the kitchen, Sam is sitting at the table with his foot propped up beneath an old pillow on a chair, and Bobby is scrambling some eggs. His brother reading the newspaper, and Dean prays he isn't searching for another hunt already.

"Mornin', guys," Dean greets as audibly as he can. His entire body spasms in shear agony as he sits down.

Sam looks up from his paper, and his heart breaks. Dean's hair is matted to his forehead, and his face is fifty shades of purple. One eye is drooping, both are bloodshot, and he's clearly got a headache by the way his facial expression is tightly pinched. He looks like shit, but Sam knows from looking at himself this morning in the mirror that he doesn't look so hot either. But, he's nowhere near as flushed and sickly as Dean appears to be.

"Ready to eat, boys?" Bobby asks, setting down a plate of food for each of them. Sam digs in instantly, but Dean just stares at it. "What's wrong? Not cooked to your liking, princess?" Dean knows Bobby is just kidding, so he grabs his fork with his left hand and starts to chew on a rubbery egg. The texture is enough to make him want to gag, and the taste is overwhelming to his stomach. He cuts up his sausage as best as he can with his opposite hand.

Sam notices his brother's awkward cutting technique immediately. "Uh, Dean?"

Dean glances up from his plate. "Yeah?"

"You're right handed."

"Uh, thanks for the news flash, Sammy. Think I've known that one since before you were born."

Sam shakes his head. "Why aren't you using that hand?"

Dean starts to sweat a little more. Shit. "Guess my arm's just a little tired, is all. It is my shooting arm, y'know."

Sam isn't taking the bait. Dean always acts weird when he's hurt. And, Sam can tell it's not just that he's injured; he's sick too. The younger Winchester keeps eyeing his brother, who has since put the fork down and is staring out the window. It's a sunny autumn day outside, but Sam knows the "happy" feelings are going to last for long.

"Let me look at your arm, Dean," Bobby says.

Bobby has taken care of these boys since Sammy was still in diapers. He knows every play, every button they like to push, and every time they're lying. Dean gets this way when he doesn't want anyone to know just how badly he's feeling. He's wearing a massively huge hoodie over his small frame that even seems too big for Sam; he's definitely hiding something. He knows Dean will just think he's a burden thanks to John Winchester's superb parenting.

Dean pulls back from him. "N'thanks. I'm good, guys."

Bobby grabs ahold of Dean's left arm and makes sure he stays put. He gently lifts the sleeve of his right, his heart pounding as he feels Dean shiver and squirm beneath his touch. He's cringing and wincing, and tears are already spilling down his cheeks. Dean's arm is a mixture of blue, purple, yellow, and red. It's dangerously swollen at the elbow, so much so that Bobby can't pull the sweater over it. His fingers look like fat, purple sausages.

"Dean..." Sam whispers. Holy shit. The sight of his brother's obviously broken arm is enough to make his stomach shrivel.

Bobby jumps out of his chair and grabs his coat and car keys. "We're going to the ER. Now."

* * *

Dean's arm is broken in three places: at the elbow, right above his wrist, and near the shoulder.

Not to mention the other injuries: a moderate concussion, two fractured ribs, and several sprains and torn ligaments. Sam and Bobby can't wrap their minds around how so much was injured, and, yet, Dean didn't say a word about it. While Sam signs Dean out, Bobby is sitting beside his bed. Dean's also sporting a 102 degree fever from all of the pain he's been in, and Bobby won't be surprised if an actual illness follows suit.

"How're you feeling, boy?" he asks quietly.

Dean shrugs. His arm aches and feels uncomfortable. It's held in place by a sling that not only wraps around his back to support his shoulder but clips around his waste. It's the "ultimate protection" is what Sam calls it, especially since he will need surgery within the next two weeks to repair the breaks. His whole body is one giant source of pain, and he can't wait until the drugs the docs gave him kicks in, and he doesn't feel a thing."

"Son," Bobby starts. "I need you to realize what you did today was stupid. Incredibly stupid. I know you're grown, but you need to hear me. You need to tell either your brother or me when something this big is wrong. You're really hurt. Don't scare me like that again, boy. I care about you way too much for something bad to happen." Bobby isn't big on "chick flick" moments either, but Dean looks up at him with big green eyes and nods.

"Yes, sir," he says. He knows Bobby will always be there to take care of him.

Sam hobbles in on crutches. "Ready to go, bro?"

Dean nods. For the first time in a while, the pain is manageable, and he's just happy to be with his brother and Bobby.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Taraneh! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	18. Taraneh (II)

**Author's Note: **Unfortunately, I do not own the amazingly spectacular television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all very much for your continued support of this story. I am completely thrilled to have 100 reviews!

Taraneh requested: "Imagine Sam somehow goes under a spell that would make him beat the crap out of Dean. I'd like Dean to say reassuring words to Sam after the spell is gone. Afterwards, Dean is recovering under Bobby and Sam's watch. Dean as a great big brother as always." I love it when these scenarios happen on the show! Dean is so amazing to Sam, and sometimes I wish Sam would realize just how much Dean does for him.

I'm going to set this one in season one.

* * *

Taraneh (II)

* * *

_July 25, 2006_

"Which way?" Dean asks. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses Sam is sure are Dad's, and he's tapping his fingers viciously on the steering wheel to the beat of an old Metallica song blaring in the background. Dean woke up in an oddly good mood, which doesn't happen all that often. Come to think of it, this kind of behavior isn't really present in either of them anymore. He guesses it's because he just loss Jess, and Dean is freaking out because he can't find Dad.

Sam glances down at the crumpled map Dad bought in 1994. "Take a left on Bridger." They're headed toward a small town in Indiana where there appears to be witch-like activity. He knows how much his brother hates witches, and he himself isn't prepared. He hasn't been sleeping all that well, and something embarrassing happened last night that he's kind of ashamed of. He woke up from a nightmare about Jess burning on the ceiling (typical), and he cried. Sam isn't even sure he can call that crying. He bawled like a freaking baby.

And, of course, Dean being the big brother he is, had to help. Sam practically crumbled in his arms, and he sobbed into his chest for what felt like hours. Sam doesn't know why he's still so sensitive about Jess; he figures it has something to do with the question he was going to pop very soon. If she hadn't died, that is... As if that weren't bad enough, Dean cuddled with him afterwards. Neither of them have cuddled together since Sam was thirteen...

They arrive at 22 Belmont Drive a few minutes later. Both are wearing their FBI gear, and both are eagerly anticipating this whole charade being over. Sam just wants to go back to sleep, and Dean is really in the mood to shoot some pool. They are expecting to interview an elderly lady named Naomi O'Connor. Dean knocks on the door, and Sam stands there wringing his hands. He knows his eyes are still bloodshot from last night...

A frail old gal answers the door with a large smile across her face. Her grey hair is neatly permed, and she smells like Dean's worst nightmare: old age. He plans on staying this handsome until he dies, which doesn't leave any room for wrinkles in the equation. "Hello, Mrs. O'Connor. I'm Agent Ford, and this is Agent Campbell. We're here to inquire about the strange matters revolving around the testimony you told the police."

"Certainly. Come on in, boys."

Sam and Dean enter the household, only to be immediately thrown against the wall. The brothers struggle to try to regain control of their bodies, but they're being pinned down. It feels like ten of themselves are being stuffed on top of their chests. They both struggle to lift their heads from the wall; they aren't able to speak. Panic rises in Sam's throat as he squirms, praying for something to lift this weight off of his chest. Dean just wants to make sure Sam's okay, but it's really hard to do that when he's pinned to a wall like this.

"You see, boys. You really shouldn't poke around in places you're not wanted," Naomi says. She drops her hands, and Sam and Dean fall to the floor. Dean immediately crawls over to his brother and puts a comforting hand on his back. Sam is shuddering beneath his touch. Even though he's breathless and could really use a hit off of his inhaler, he knows how hard last night was for his brother. He needs him more than ever right now, and some witch-bitch isn't going to stop him.

Naomi begins to throw wooden chairs around the room, dancing and prancing eloquently. Dean scowls and searches for any form of a weapon on his person, but there's nothing. How in the hell did she manage to rob them of everything?!

"Have fun cleaning up this mess!" she hollers, disappearing into thin air suddenly.

"What the hell was that?" Dean questions. His eyes widen with horror and disbelief. He literally has no idea what just happened, and it's really confusing him. His heart thumps wildly, and he reaches into his dress pants pocket and grabs the blue inhaler. Dean's chest yearns for support he cannot give on his own. He's asthma since Sam was a baby; it's a fact of life. Thankfully, he was young when they found out, so his dad actually took it seriously.

Right as he is about to press down on the canister, Sam knocks the inhaler out of his hands.

"Sam," he says breathlessly. "What the hell?"

The younger Winchester grabs his older brother by his suit and lifts him to where his feet are dangling inches from the floor. Dean's pulse throbs as he begins to lose even more oxygen. His cheeks heat up and then go completely red. Sweat beads around the collar of his dress shirt. He tries to cough, but nothing will come up. "S-S-Sam..." he mumbles, scratching at his brother's hands. What the hell is actually going on?

There is no longer life in Sam's eyes. They're completely glazed over and unfocused. It's like _this _isn't even Sam.

Sam drops Dean on to the hardwood floor, and Dean is thanking his lucky stars. He tries desperately to catch his breath, but his breaths are quick and wispy. He's wheezing heavily. His hands shake as he reaches out his left to snatch the inhaler on the floor, but Sam's boot stops in, stomping on it with all his weight. He twists his boot into the flesh, leaving Dean with real tears streaming down his cheeks. His brother...or maybe not his brother...then proceeds to remove his boot. Dean takes his left hand and cradles it with his right, holding it close to his chest.

The pain in his hand reminds him not to breathe. Breathing hurts way too much.

Sam holds Dean down on the ground and starts to punch the left side of his face as hard as he can. Dean struggles to remove himself from Sam's tight grasp, but he can't. He tastes the crimson dripping into his mouth and sees the blood flowing into his eye. His eye swells closed almost instantly, and Dean whimpers beneath his brother's every hit. Sam moves away from the face and starts to kick him in the chest, back, and abdomen. Dean no longer has any strength to hit, so he resorts to trying to crawl away, holding his back with his right hand.

There's one last tug on his suit jacket, hoisting him backwards with great intensity.

The next thing he knows is that he's laying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

"D-D-D...D'nnnn...?" Sam questions.

He feels like he's just woken up from three days of straight sleep. That happened once when he was sick with the flu at Stanford. He couldn't get up and go to the bathroom, much less go to class. He remembers lying in bed too weak to move and waiting for his brother, whom he hadn't talked to in months, to show up and magically make it all better. Sam still doesn't know why he shut out Dean the way he did when he does everything for him.

Speaking of Dean...

Sam's arms and legs are both wobbly as he pushes himself into a standing position. His brother is collapsed on his side with blood pouring out of his nose, mouth, ear, and from the gashes on his face. Sam's heart drops into the pit of his stomach as soon as he falls to his knees again. He carefully fingers Dean's face, trying not to irritate the wounds. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck happened? He looks down at his quivering knuckles, which are bruised and bloody.

Shit.

Tears spill over the sides of his cheeks, and he rubs his hands down his face.

_Oh my God._

Sam gently shakes Dean's shoulders. His brother is unconscious, bruised, and bleeding, and he caused every single bit of it. The left side of Dean's face is a mass of purple, blue, and even black. He's totally out and probably won't come to for hours. Tears are still flowing, and Sam picks up his brother. He's a few inches shorter and a few pounds lighter, but that, by no means, makes him a lightweight. Dean's shorter and stalky, always has been.

He isn't really processing much right now, so he bundles Dean into the backseat of the Impala and uses pieces of his clothing to stop the bleeding.

Sam drives to Bobby's house with no idea of what just happened.

* * *

_July 29, 2006_

Dean's been in so much pain the past few days that he hasn't gotten out of bed. Bobby and Sam have been delivering his meals, helping him bathe, and even aiding him on his journeys to the bathroom. The ordeal landed him with a broken hand, three broken ribs, a cracked vertebra, a fractured cheekbone, and a broken nose. Needless to say, Sam had really done a number on him.

And Sam still isn't forgiving himself. He's spent every waking moment trying to show his brother how sorry he is and how terrible he feels. He knows it isn't really his fault, but all of the broken bones were shattered beneath his hands. Bobby has resorted to making Sam rest by drugging his coffee, especially since the younger Winchester had worried himself sick. Again. It isn't unusual for Sam to do this to himself, which makes everything worse.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" Dean questions quietly. His baby brother is half-asleep and rolled into as tight of a ball as a 6'4" twenty-three year old can muster beneath a thick quilt. It's the end of July, and Sam is acting like it's the arctic in here. Despite how achy he is, he somehow manages to push himself up. His head feels three sizes too big, and his left eye is so swollen that he hasn't been able to put in his contacts for days, so he's left wearing dorky ass glasses until his face heals. He walks over to Sam's bed in their shared bedroom in Bobby's and sits down next to him.

Sam squirms beneath his brother's touch. His skin hurts. And he doesn't want to be around Dean right now. He's terrified of hurting him again. He hurt Dean by leaving for Stanford and leaving him alone with Dad, he hurt Dean by never once calling him, and he physically hurt Dean while he was under a spell. After what he said at the asylum, he can't help but wonder what exactly his brother thinks of him now. He's such a screw up of a little brother.

And to think that Dean's done everything for him is what makes him really sick.

Dean changed his diapers as a baby and held him when he cried. He taught him how to read and write. His brother entertained him when their father was away hunting. Dean, even though he truly didn't want him to leave, supported him through the Stanford process. He will never be able to take back the sleepless nights taking care of his sick baby brother, and he will never be able to take away the fact that he shattered so many of Dean's bones.

The older Winchester starts to rub Sam's back, biting his lip once Sam starts to sob. "Sammy...hey, Sammy, it's okay, little bro." He sets Sam's head in his lap and smiles briefly as Sam curls his hand around Dean's flannel pajama pants. Dean runs his hands through his brother's elongating hair. "Sam, I don't blame you, buddy. Please just calm down." Sam is shivering violently, and Dean can tell he's running a high fever.

"No...N-No, D'n..." Sam mumbles.

"Listen to me, Sammy," Dean says. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me. You were under a freaking spell, dude. You couldn't control yourself."

Sam shakes his head into Dean's leg. "'m sorry..."

Dean keeps trying to calm Sam down by continuously rubbing his back. "I love you, baby brother. It doesn't matter how badly you hurt me."

Sam gulps. His chest and ears are killing him, but he's sure he didn't hear Dean right. He hasn't heard Dean utter those three little words since Sam himself was around twelve. They both started feeling too old and awkward. He's never had to ask if Dean loved him or not because he's showed it in a plethora of ways, but it still blows Sam's mind to hear him actually say it. His older brother is, by no means, a touchy-feely kind of guy.

"And I want you to know that it's okay. Don't beat yourself up over this. Things happen, Sammy. It's part of the job. It's my job to protect you, and I failed. Neither of us should have even showed up there. So, if there's anyone to blame, then blame me. But, seriously, don't do this to yourself," Dean says. "You've been like this since you were a toddler, Sam. You used to get so upset when Dad yelled at you that you went and made yourself sick. I don't want you to feel that way around me. You're my brother, Sam."

Tears stop leaking from Sam's eyes, and he sniffles loudly. Dean hands him a tissue, and he blows his runny nose into it carefully.

"Okay?" Dean inquires.

Sam nods. "Okay."

* * *

_Two days later_

"Hey, Sammy," Dean coaxes, rubbing his brother lightly on the shoulder.

Sam rolls over and opens up his fever glazed eyes, groaning loudly. "Time's it?"

"A little after seven. You slept through the whole day, dude."

Dean figures that he would. Sam's been a feverish mess for the past few days. No other symptoms other than that and an incredibly runny nose, but it's just enough to make him absolutely miserable. It's been fluctuating from anywhere between 99 and nearly 104, and it's been causing both Bobby and Dean a shit ton of stress. However, Dean's just happy his brother is awake and somewhat alert right now.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks his brother quietly. His brother's still wearing glasses because his eye is swollen shut, and he'll have that white cast on his hand for the next five weeks. Dean's bruises are turning from bright red and purple to blue and yellow. He's up and moving around, which is always a good sign. However, he does hope he isn't pulling a Dean Winchester and faking like he's feeling okay. But Sam's just happy that his brother's wounds are finally healing.

Dean nods. "Never better. You really need to eat something." He sets up a portable tray over his brother's lap and puts a bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of him. Sam scowls and glares up at his brother with puppy dog eyes. His muscles feel too weak, and his whole body feels drained. He doesn't want to eat, but he knows he should, especially since Dean went through the labor of making it when he's this hurt. "C'mon, Sammy."

Sam picks up the spoon and takes a bite.

He nearly cries once more once Dean goes to leave the room; he whimpers out loud.

_Jesus, it's like I'm five again..._

Dean stops and glances at him from the doorway. He doesn't say anything else; he just walks back over to his brother's bed and sits down next to him in the chair he and Bobby moved yesterday. He isn't quite sure what to make of all of this, but he does know that Sam needs help conquering whatever it is that seems to be going through his mind.

And, as his big brother, Dean vows to not leave his side until Sam lets him know he's ready.

"D'n?" Sam murmurs sleepily. "Love you..."

The older Winchester grins widely. "I love you too, Sammy."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked this one too, Taraneh! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	19. Zana Zira

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you so much for your lovely reviews, requests, and for simply reading!

I have been watching the gag reels for all of the seasons today! I love J2 and Misha so much it hurts! They're so relatable, quirky, lovable, and (of course) handsome. Everyone on the show is so special, and I love watching the relationship between Jensen and Jared morph into a full-blown bromantic extravaganza! And then there's Misha...Have you guys seen the photo he posted on Twitter of West at the airport and the "Carry On My Wayward Son" reference?

Is anyone else is as in love with their kids as much as I am? Thomas and Shep are freaking adorable together, and I feel as though they may be the baby Sam and Dean! And Thomas looks **so much** like Jared! And little JJ in those pictures with Jensen and Danneel! She's such a sweetie! And who could forget "Cooking Fast and Fresh with West and Maison?" I love their kids to death because they're so adorable, and I think they are all amazing fathers!

Zana Zira requested: "I'd like to see Team Free Will on a cruise ship, maybe as a reward for helping someone who owns the ship against a supernatural threat. It's a multi-day trip, and it turns out that Dean can't handle boats any better than planes (except he's not afraid of boats). He's horribly seasick within a few hours, and because they've never traveled by boat and Dean is certain that Sam would be the one to get seasick, he needlessly gave the last of the Dramamine to his brother before they left. Whether Sam and Cas end up managing him to make him feel any better with ginger ale, saltines, anti-nausea, etc. is up to you, but I would like to see both of them trying to help him (and SUPER bonus points if Cas gets seasick along with Dean while tries to help, leaving Sam to care for them both!)." Lovely request! =)

This one is going to be slightly AU. It's set in season nine where Cas is fully human, but Gadreel does not possess Sam.

* * *

Zana Zira

* * *

_August 31, 2013_

"Dean, I really don't think I need that," Sam protests, still fiddling with his suitcase.

The older Winchester pops open the packet of pills and hands them to his brother. "Take them, Sammy. If you're as big of a bitch on boats as on Ferris wheels, you'll need it." When Sam was ten and Dean was fourteen, their dad took them to a carnival. Dean was not happy, but he did enjoy seeing his little brother actually have fun for once. Sam overloaded himself on cotton candy and corndogs and hurled all over an angry John Winchester on the Ferris wheel.

"I was a kid, Dean," Sam says. He's in the middle of folding his last bit of clothes when Dean shoves the pills into his hand. Sam rolls his eyes and dry swallows the white capsules, annoyingly sticking out his tongue and opening his mouth wide so Mother Dean can check to see if he took the medicine. The Dramamine is supposed to non-drowsy, so Sam really hopes he'll still be able to walk around soon. They're catching their ride with Cas in less than an hour.

Dean hasn't stopped talking about the cruise vacation in a week. He's been completely packed since last Sunday and continuously keeps re-packing, stating that his outfits aren't "flattering enough for the hot chicks." His still won't wear shorts because how scarred up his legs are from numerous hunts, but he's planning on making the best of what's around. They earned this vacation from a wealthy cruise line owner named Joe Finnegan, whom they helped with a poltergeist issues nearly three weeks ago. In return, Joe is giving them a cruise to the Bahamas.

Sam is purely excited because it's the first time Dean's talked this much since they were kids. Normally, Sam's the talker and the one who comes up with the plans and the ideas; it's unusual because Dean's normally pretty quiet. When he has something to say, it's snarky or sarcastic, and Sam accepts that's just how it is. But, during this past week, Dean has lightened up and has been in a crazy good mood, so Sam can't really complain.

The youngest Winchester pads out of the room in his flip-flops and down the hall to Cas's room. The newly angel-turned-human is mysteriously eyeing a pair of swimming trunks Dean bought him. He's shirtless and barefoot, just staring at the orange floral pattern. "Am I supposed to wear these?" Cas asks, motioning to the swimming trunks like they're a demon.

Sam nods his head and laughs. "Yeah, dude."

Cas shakes his head. "They're hideous."

"Yeah, well blame Dean for that."

The new human shrugs his shoulders and drops his jeans and boxers right in front of Sam; the taller man shields his eyes.

"Jesus Christ!"

"...No, I am Castiel," is all he says.

* * *

_A few hours later_

"This is so awesome!" Dean shouts happily.

The trio is in their room, which is decked out with three beds (thank God), a mini bar, a Jacuzzi, and an entire cabinet filled with candy and junk food. Sam guesses Dean's going to be on this massive sugar high the entire trip, and that's okay. His brother hasn't been drinking that much lately, so it's also good that he doesn't even glance at the mini bar for more than a few seconds. Dean flops down on the bed he claims and puts his hands behind his head.

His stomach feels a little weird. Kind of tight, but kind of loose at the same time, like something's not quite screwed in. Dean swallows the lump in the back of his throat, but he's still smiling, even through the little bits of nausea rolling through his stomach. Dean listens as Sam and Cas bicker about who gets what bed, but Cas ends up with the middle bed, where he'll be forced to listen to Sam snore and Dean munch on candy bars all night.

Dean grins and wonders why he feels so sick to his stomach.

It's supposed to be a vacation...

* * *

_A few more hours later_

Dean's thrown up six times. Three times in their room, twice in a toilet in the lobby, and, currently over the railing of the ship. His vomit is stringy and a dark yellow; strands hang from his mouth as he throws up into the water hundreds of feet below. Sam hands him a bottle of water and wipes his chin once he finishes. Dean sinks to the hardwood floor of the ship's upper deck, shaking violently. Even though it's summer, Dean is shivering, so Sam drapes his jacket over his brother's ill form, wincing when he feels how hot Dean's skin is.

"Apparently, you can't handle boats either," Sam informs.

Dean just scowls.

He's referring to the fact that Dean can't handle planes and now boats, pretty much limiting him to spending the rest of his life traveling by the Impala, which, quite frankly, Dean couldn't care less about. He loves Baby... But right now he would love it if the burning sensation in his throat and stomach would stop. He wants to eat sweets, watch movies in their giant asshole of a cinema, shove as many steaks as he can into his mouth, and even play shuffleboard. He wants to do normal "cruise things." He wishes his stomach would stop rebelling long enough for him to stand.

Sam tugs on his elbow and hoists him into an upright position. Bile stings the back of his throat, but he's determined to make it to their bedroom without puking again. Dean tries to find Cas through blurry vision and notices the now human dude sipping on martinis with three girls on each arm at the bar. He wonders if a drunk Cas is a ladies man; maybe it's just Jimmy trying to poke his way out in whatever way possible...

By the time they make it to the room, Dean is sweating bullets. Sam turns on the shower for him and makes sure it's cold, which he hopes with sooth his stomach. The younger Winchester helps strip Dean from his jeans and t-shirt and nearly throws him in. Dean sits on the ground of the shower and puts his head in his hands. Sam wishes he could heave up the Dramamine Dean forced him to take earlier and give it to him. Sam's already checked the gift shop and the other stores on the ship; none of them sell anything for motion sickness.

Which, according to Sam, is seriously stupid.

Sam grabs Dean a pair of pajama pants and one of his own t-shirts, knowing that, at least for tonight, as Dean adjusts to the patterns of the boat swaying back and forth, he's going to be laid up in bed. His brother emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later holding his middle section, his hair soaking wet, and pale and flushed. He collapses on to Cas's bed because it's the closest to him and curls up beneath the silk sheets.

The taller Winchester is in the middle of scrounging up medicine and a wet washcloth when Cas enters the room. "What's wrong with Dean?" he inquires. Dean is three shades paler than he's used to seeing him, and he looks extremely sick. Cas's only experience with illness was actually from a few weeks ago when he came down with what Sam called a "summer cold." He sneezed 349 times, used 508 tissues, and spent the days counting sheep until he fell asleep.

"Seasickness," is all Sam says.

Before he even knows how to respond, Cas kicks off his shoes and lies down next to Dean, pulling the ill man's head on to his chest. "Shh, Dean. You'll feel better soon." The older Winchester doesn't bother protesting. In fact, Sam swears he sees Dean snuggling closer. He smiles and snaps a quick picture on his iPhone while he watches his brother drift off to sleep on Cas. Cas shrugs and clicks on the television, all while holding Dean tightly.

* * *

_The next day_

Dean can barely move.

His stomach is actually throbbing with his pulse this time. He vomits viciously into the toilet, panting and nearly sobbing. His cheeks are bright red, and his dark blond hair is destroyed. He wants to get off the God forsaken boat right this instant, but Sam says there's still five more days of the trip left. He gags even more at the thought of having to sleep like this once again. He woke up glued to Cas's chest this morning. Isn't that bad enough?

Cas is wiping his face with a cold cloth, sympathy evident in his blue eyes. The new human is still struggling with how to handle emotions, but he knows that this "sucks." Dean is burning up from the constant puking and can barely speak because his throat is so raw and sore. Cas is doing what he can to help him feel better. He knows from Sam telling him and from watching over both Winchesters that Dean craves close comfort when he's ill, so that's what Cas tried last night.

Sam has been giving Dean Benadryl to help him sleep. It's not the best thing they can do in this situation, but it's the only thing they have in stock. It's normally used for when Sam's springtime allergies hit him full force, and Dean is begging for his little brother to sleep. Now, Sam's using it somewhat irresponsibly, but he'd rather Dean be asleep than suffer through all of this agony. By the time Sam returns with yet another change of clothes, he's half asleep against Cas.

"I don't think he's feeling very well."

Sam's eyes widen in disbelief. "No shit, Cas. Here, help me get him up."

The two of them pull the sick Winchester up and drag him to bed. Sam removes his soiled shirt and pants and leaves him in just a t-shirt and new plaid boxers.

These next five days are going to suck ass.

* * *

_September 3, 2013_

"Cas, are you okay? You've been in there for a long time," Sam says, knocking lightly on their bathroom door.

The shorter man has hoarded himself in the restroom for the better part of the morning. In result, Dean has had to puke in a wastebasket by his bed, even though Sam knows the smell of it is killing his stomach even more. While Sam is slightly worried about how long Cas has been in there, he's freaking out even more because Dean can't keep anything down. They're nearing the point where he needs a hospital and an IV to replenish everything he has lost.

"I think I have vomited up my spleen," he hears Cas say through the door.

_Shit. Not you too..._

He should have seen this coming. Cas has been complaining about how the room has been spinning and how his stomach feels "different." Sam guesses he can't exactly tell the difference between any forms of illness, whether it is seasickness or not. He face palms himself and scrubs his hands down his newfound stubbly look. The youngest Winchester cracks the door open and finds Cas kneeling before the throne, vomiting up all of the blue martinis he's consumed.

Sam is used to taking care of his brother and knows how to accomplish most things Dean-related. Cas is new territory, and it's even worse because he has only been human for a few months. All Sam really knows is that he's a PB&amp;J freak, likes to watch the sitcom _How I Met Your Mother_, and is a fan of driving, despite the fact that he sucks at it. He isn't sure if Cas is a touchy-feeling guy or if he's a bit more stoic and stubborn like Dean.

To test the waters, Sam starts by lightly rubbing Cas's back. He's sweating heavily, panting, and continuously purging. He's definitely running a bit of a fever from all of this puking, and Sam wonders if this is the first time that Cas has ever thrown up in the short time he's been human. He and Dean are literally two peas in a pod right now; a tiny little pod of grossness that leaves Sam the lone care provider.

Cas turns out to be pretty easy to take care of. He's easy to get to take a shower, change his clothes, and take a dose of Benadryl to help him sleep. Cas crawls into bed next to Dean, and, even in his sleep, shifts to lay his head on Cas's chest, draping a comforting arm over his ex-angel friend. The dark brunette cuddles up next to him, and Sam can't help but hide his smile.

* * *

_September 6, 2013_

Sam has to practically carry Dean off of the shift. It's been a beyond miserable week. If they go anywhere ever again without motion sickness patches, he'll kill himself. Dean's exhausted, can barely move, and is still running a bit of a fever. He's sporting quite the beard from not shaving for a week, and his dark blond hair is matted to his forehead. He's a bit drugged, and his feet won't cooperate. Somehow, he manages to grin when he sees his baby in the parking lot.

Cas climbs into the backseat and falls asleep immediately. The past three days have been rough on the ex-angel, and Sam can tell he's lost quite a bit of weight, which is saying something because he's already a lightweight. His cheeks are flushed red. His last vomiting episode was literally right as they were leaving their room and headed toward the lobby. Neither Dean nor Cas has anything to eat besides saltines and ginger ale in days.

Guess what though? They threw all of that up too.

Sam puts the Impala in drive and just goes off into the sunset. It's late evening, and he's so ready to get some sleep. He's sure Cas and Dean are ready to stop puking every few minutes. Cas is curled up in the backseat beneath Sam's jacket that he tossed back there, snoring loudly. Dean is using the passenger seat window as a pillow, his flushed face smushed against the glass. He's been going what feels like nonstop between having to throw Cas in the shower and rub Dean's back until he succumbs to sleep. Sam yawns and lets the road take him back to the bunker, where he is so excited to get back to their makeshift home that he can hardly stand it. For once in a week, both members of his ill family are quiet, leaving Sam with hope that this whole fiasco is actually over.

There's movement next to him, and Sam glances over to find Dean looking at him with glassy eyes.

"Uh, Sammy, can you pull over?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Zana Zira! Thank you so much for reading, requesting, and reviewing! =)


	20. Em (I)

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the amazingly wonderfully brilliant television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you all so much for your requests, reviews, and for reading!

Em requested: "I love the concept of stress sickness and illness, emotional angst is like my favorite h/c combo in the world. My request is to maybe see more of that post-ep piece sometime? Or else illness emotional angst in a different setting?" The other part of the request is for suicidal Dean, and, I'm sorry Em, but I will not write that one. Suicide hits a bit too close to home for me, and I can't even imagine it enough to write about it. And, for that, I am terribly sorry. I feel really bad for saying no to your request, and I hope you understand.

With that said, I have decided to write a bit more to the piece that BamaBelle2012 requested, which is from chapter four. It is set immediately after Sam and Cas have their little talk at the end, making it in season ten. This is a post-episode fic, and it comes after 10x14 "The Executioner's Song." I just thought I would remind everyone of that! Go back and check out chapter four to see what I am talking about and to understand this request. =)

This may be out of character. I'm sorry if it is. I want to do something that I am 99.9% sure will never be in the show...

* * *

Em (I)

* * *

_February 20, 2015_

"No, Cas. I think Dean's in trouble."

The angel lifts his head from its resting spot on his knees and blearily glances at the youngest Winchester. Sam has a habit of blowing things out of proportion. Cain lived with the Mark for years before he hulked out without killing a single person. Now that he's killing his bloodline, which happens to be ten percent of the world, it clearly has Sam panicking about his brother more than usual. Ever since Dean became human again, Sam has been all over this situation.

"I think we just need to give him some time," is all Cas says.

Sam shakes his head. "No, we can't give him time. We need to figure this out, Cas." His heart is nearly pounding out of his chest, and he's so nervous that every time he swallows he feels as though he's bound to throw up. Dean's sick, hurt, and clearly holding something back, and Sam needs to get to the bottom of this situation before he explodes in anticipation. After Dean's close breakdown after his encounter with Cain, Sam's not willing to take any chances.

The dark haired angel stands up. Jimmy seems to be having some issues because his knees are trembling. He figures his vessel is probably exhausted, which has happened a few times before. Angels don't need to sleep or eat, but, sometimes, Jimmy does. This is a sign that Cas probably should lay low for a bit, especially since he doesn't want to harm or, worse, kill Jimmy. He would have to find a new vessel then. And he's too busy and wound up for that.

"Do you care if maybe I sleep here?" Cas questions.

Sam raises his eyebrows and then pats his shoulder. "Not a problem, man. You okay?"

Cas nods. "My vessel he, um, seems to be tired. A few hours of sleep should do him some good."

No sooner than Sam shows Cas to one of the twenty spare rooms the bunker has, the angel promptly passes out on the bed, too exhausted to climb under the covers. He figures Jimmy must somehow be struggling in there to keep up with their rigorous schedule, and, as much as it sucks, it must be nice to fall asleep and possible feel human for once.

Now, Sam's alone. And that hurts worst of all.

* * *

_Later that afternoon_

Dean wakes up sick.

He knows this ill feeling pretty well. Burning cheeks, aching back, watery eyes, sore throat, runny nose, and a sore chest. His arm is throbbing, and his wrist spasms in agony every time he moves it. He wishes Sam were here. He would know how to make all of this go away. But Sam's not here. And that kills Dean. What if he hurt him while he was asleep? What if Sam's dead? Maybe that's why he's not in here... Hot tears spill down Dean's face.

Dean isn't sure what he's supposed to do. He's physically trapped in a body that can barely move and is too sick to fight and mentally trapped by what Cain said to him. He's going to murder his brother and his best friend. He's going to turn into him and end up slaughtering the world, for all he knows. What is he supposed to do? More waterworks leak out of his bloodshot eyes; he groans as he stretches out a bit more on his bed.

_What am I supposed to do?_

Just as he's in the middle of contemplating his life, Sam pokes his head through the door.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly. He doesn't step all the way in the room, afraid Dean may be in a fowl mood or not wanting to talk. Sam honestly just came in here to check on him, but he knows every hitch, hiss, and hum of Dean's breathing; he's not asleep. Sam waits for a response that doesn't come and decides to go against his gut feeling. He finds Dean in a state he hasn't seen since they were seventeen and twenty-one.

Tears are streaming down Dean's flushed cheeks, and he's clearly trying to roll over on to his side. Only he can't. Dean's left arm is still held by a sling, and his right shoulder is also swollen and tender. Cain beat the living shit out of him, and it's showing more now than in the past few days. His brother's dark blond hair is matted to his forehead, and sweat is pooling around the collar of his shirt. Snot is dripping out of his nose.

Sam crawls into Dean's bed and rolls him on to his back again. "You need to sit still, dude," he says. Sam tucks the blankets back around him and sits up next to him. Dean's broken, completely and utterly shattered. This is beyond what it was a few years ago when Dean was dragged out of Hell. It's worse than what it was when Dean wouldn't eat and lost nearly thirty pounds after he escaped Purgatory. He's crumbling beneath whatever is going on in his mind.

"S-Sorry..." Dean mumbles, rubbing his right hand down his face. He cringes as his wrist shakes in protest beneath the touch. Dean's entire body is one ball of aches and pains, and his current emotional state isn't making this situation any easier to deal with. He wants Sam to wrap his arms around him and tell him it will be alright. He is so desperate to get out of here and leave this whole "hunting" life behind. He's a murderer.

The younger Winchester shakes his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Dean. You didn't do anything wrong."

Sam's stomach is sunk down into the soles of his shoes. He flinches in surprise when Dean grabs his hand and squeezes it tightly. Oh shit. Sam scoots down and rolls on to his side, facing his brother. Dean looks away in shame and continues letting tears stream out of his glassy eyes. Be knows how uncomfortable this is for his brother given everything he's been through, but he's got to open up. Whatever this is is going to eat him alive.

"Dean, you gotta talk to me. What did he say to you?"

The older Winchester stares off into space. Shit. He can't tell Sam this. The whole goal is to not let Cas, Sam, or anyone ever know about what Cain said to him that will forever make his skin crawl. He needs to move on, get away, and leave his brother and angel in the dust. Maybe if he takes the Impala one night and just never returns, he won't succumb to his destiny. How's he going to do that with a battered and beaten body, though?

"Dean," Sam pleads.

His brother finally looks at him; Sam's heart shatters into a thousand pieces. His bloodshot eyes are screaming in agony, both mentally and physically, he presumes. "Cain...C-Cain told me..." He trails off near the end and entirely stops speaking, not willing or wanting to say anything else. Sam hangs on in anticipation and waits for Dean to finish, but it's obvious whatever he said is too painful for his brother to put into words.

"He told you what, Dean?"

Dean shakes his head and sighs loudly. "He told me I'll kill you," he says harshly, immediately flinching away from the hand on his chest and removes his hand from beneath his brother's. He can't do this anymore. He goes to sit up and put his boots on, but Sam instantly holds him back. His back twists, and both of his arms protest loudly. He coughs and lets snot drip on to his t-shirt. He hiccups loudly and collapses back into Sam's chest. He buries his face and sobs.

"Woah, Dean..." Sam wraps his arms around his brother's quivering frame and lets Dean cry openly into his plaid shirt. He can't entirely process what his brother just said to him. Cain said he would kill him? It could be today, tomorrow, or fifty years from now. Whatever the case, this doesn't scare Sam like it should. He's been told he's going to do a lot of things by everyone people can imagine, from Lucifer to angels. They've all been wrong.

At one point, Castiel was certain Sam would end up killing Dean.

And Sam refused. He couldn't and wouldn't ever do that.

Dean is his brother, and it doesn't matter who the information comes from. Hurting him on purpose is impossible. He's been there for everything from learning how to read all the way until he graduated high school. His brother taught him how to drive, for Christ's sake. Sam knows he would be nothing without his brother. And to think that Dean possibly thinks he has it in him to harm a soul is ridiculous. Dean is the best person he knows.

"Listen to me, buddy," Sam says quietly. "You're better than this. You're not a killer. You're my big brother. Do you remember when Dad and I used to fight all the time? You're the one who held us together. You've done everything for me, to make sure I was okay, to make sure I was safe. I know you think you're capable of doing this, but, I gotta tell you, it's impossible. You're too strong for this, Dean. You can fight this. You have to fight this."

_Don't let Cain tell you what to be._

Sam's learned his lesson from Ruby. The demon bitch tricked him into opening the cage and thinking he was doing the right thing. He'll be damned if Dean falters into another trap like his from Cain. Dean can do anything and everything he wants, and he will never kill anyone on purpose. Sure, he's had his slip-ups, but so has Sam. So has everyone in the business. Sam just knows he will never let Dean amount to his "destiny."

_Screw destiny._

When Sam glances down in his arms, he realizes Dean has fallen asleep.

He hopes he heard him.

* * *

_February 24, 2015_

Dean's right hand still shakes.

Cas notices and ends up cutting his food for him.

Sam notices and ends up bathing him.

Even though the bruises are starting to fade and the fever is dropping, Dean still feels wrecked. His shoulder will undoubtedly hurt for the next few months, and he probably won't be able to leave the bunker for another week or two. Right now, he's curled up on the couch, laying his head on Cas's lap. All three of them have locked each other down to rest. It's what all of them need the most. He tries to sit up, but Cas pushes him back on to the pillow.

"Go back to sleep, Dean," he says quietly. Jimmy has finally refueled after two straight days of sleeping. He has also eaten seven PB&amp;Js today...But that's beside the point. Sam told him all about the conversation he had with Dean days ago, and he thinks it helped. Dean is no longer a blubbering mess and has actually managed to get himself into a standing position for the first time in a week. He's on the mend and getting antsy.

Sam sits down at the opposite end of the leather couch and places Dean's socked feet on his own lap. His brother seems to be considerably better than what he was before, but he still hasn't breathed a word of their conversation. His opinions about the whole situation are unknown to Sam, but he guesses, due to his brother's progress, that he's a bit better. His color is returning, he's able to get up on his own, and he isn't crying anymore.

The younger Winchester looks down at man resting on Cas's lap.

Dean's fast asleep.

Cas notices and ends up rubbing his right shoulder comfortingly.

Sam notices and ends up covering his brother with an old quilt.

They'll get through this. Together.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, Em! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	21. Em (II)

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the amazingly wonderful television show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you all so much for the requests, reviews, and for reading! I really appreciate the favorites and the follows too! =)

Em requested: "What about Dean with pneumonia? They both kind of ignore it for a while, thinking it's not serious, but it ends up being pretty bad. Like, hospital bad. Like, they need to take a break, but Dean is in one of his can't-stop-working-have-to-keep-going-at-all-costs phases like he was in s4 (or whenever else) so it's hard to keep him down and for him to get better. He could have a broken rib or two as well! That sounds a the perfect and evil combo to me."

This little ditty is set in season four.

* * *

Em (II)

* * *

Dean's got these tells of his when he's not feeling well.

First off, he loses his appetite. Sam knows his brother craves junk food, specifically pie, at all hours of the day. Dean finishes his food long before Sam takes three bites, not caring what he looks like scarfing it down. Sam figures it's because of all the times he went hungry as a kid; Sam thinks Dean doesn't know that he refused to eat in order to save food for him. When he's sick, the older Winchester won't even eat a quarter of the food he orders, which, strangest of all, happens to be slightly healthier. Normally, it's a BLT or the soup of the day.

Next, he ditches his contacts, moving to where he's wearing his glasses for days in a row. From past experience, Sam can guess it's because his eyes are too weary and watery to support the contacts. He isn't completely sure how that one works, though. Dean's been wearing contacts since he found out he needed glasses. He refuses often to put the spectacles on, even when Sam knows he hasn't taken his contacts out for days. When Sam sees Dean's black square rimmed glasses, he knows he's bound for a bit of trouble.

Then come the breathing problems. Dean's asthma flares uncontrollably when he doesn't feel well. It doesn't matter if it's a migraine or the stomach flu; even illnesses that have little to nothing to do with the respiratory system cause him to use his inhaler multiple times a day. Sam tries to not panic that much because it seems to worsen whatever Dean is battling, like Sam's nervous energy plays off how his brother's lungs feel.

Last is Sam's "favorite." He pulls out this ratty old grey hoodie that's two sizes too big for him, drowns his waist, and goes inches past his fingertips. It's Sam's hoodie that Dean wore frequently when his heart was barbequed years ago. His brother has yet to part with it, only wearing it when he's sick. Sam's spent many hours, especially during the heart episode, rubbing his brother's back through the familiar fabric. The hoodie has taken over as Dean's form of a comfort blanket to be used whenever he feels the most vulnerable. Sam wonders if it's Dean's way of telling him.

* * *

_November 18, 2008_

It's three in the morning, and they're still on the road. Have been since early yesterday afternoon. Sam can't help but seriously contemplate what the hell is going on in his brother's head. Even though Dean's the one who has been driving this entire time, Sam finds it hard to get comfortable scrunched up in the Impala. It's snowing outside, which makes it a bit more peaceful to watch. Still, he's bored, his back is aching, and his legs are begging to be used.

"Do you think we can pull over?" Sam questions, scrubbing a hand down his stubbly face. He just wants to get some actual sleep in some crappy motel bed. It's certainly better than being cooped up with Dean's incessant coughing for hours on end. His brother has this deep barking cough that sends his chest visibly spasming beneath his blue Henley. They've both been ignoring it mutually. Dean doesn't seem to care enough about it to bother, and Sam isn't exactly in the mood to talk the logistics of illness with the brother who thinks he's turning into a monster.

Dean glances over at Sam, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot beneath the moonlight. He nods and coughs into his hand. Thankfully, a motel is only a few minutes away, so neither of them fusses any further. Sam dreams of a hot shower massaging out the muscles of his back and a warm bed to hole up in until the afternoon. He figures Dean wants the same and that they won't be back on the road until some time tomorrow.

When Dean pulls into the motel, he immediately hops out of the Impala before Sam can offer to go check them in. He's not that happy with his brother at the moment, but he doesn't need to be walking out in the snow with a cough like that. Sam tries to replay in his head whether or not he could tell Dean has any other symptoms, but he hasn't been paying enough attention to tell. He doesn't even want to look in Dean's direction anymore.

He feels ashamed.

Dean returns and pulls the Impala up to room twelve. They grab their duffels without a word. Sam pretends he doesn't see Dean take the fifth huff of his inhaler in less than two hours, wheezing loudly and breathing erratically. He tries not to notice the trembling hands or the quivering fingers as he shucks off his shirt. Sam nods when he sees him motioning to the bathroom. He'll give him the first shower tonight.

Sam is dozing on his bed when Dean emerges from the shower. He's wearing his glasses. He's wearing Sam's old hoodie. He's clutching his inhaler in his hands. Sam tries to look back to the last time he's seen Dean eat. Shit. Still, despite his worries and wonders, Sam takes his turn in the bathroom without a word. The hot water soothes him in every way he hoped it would; now all he needs is a good night's (morning's) rest to make him feel human again.

Dean is fast asleep underneath his thick comforter when Sam comes out. His glasses and inhaler are on the nightstand beside him. He's snoring wickedly and coughing in his slumber. Sam flops down on the next bed, covers up, and tries to dream of a time when he wasn't so pissed at his brother. He can't believe Dean really thinks he's becoming a monster when all he's doing is helping people. He's saved more people in the four months Dean was in Hell than they do in a year, after all. Sam's counted; he's always been meticulous like that.

Sam's plan is to keep ignoring it and hope his brother will return to normal soon.

* * *

_5:00 p.m._

When Sam wakes up, Dean's ordering food from a local pizzeria. Sam stretches out like a cat and kicks the covers off of him; he's sweating slightly. He pushes his hair back from his forehead and tries to smooth out the craziness. He sits up, yawns, and stands, padding over to where his brother is sitting at their makeshift kitchen table, rasping into the phone. His voice is wrecked, and he's missing some syllables clearly here and there.

Dean mumbles a thank you to the person on the other line. He scrubs a hand down his face and coughs as quietly as he can. Sam can tell he's avoiding eye contact with him. Dean goes back to researching for another hunt, sniffling and snuffling. Sam hands him a tissue when snot drips on to one of their borrowed books from Bobby. His brother accepts it, nods, and blows his nose, using multiple tissues until he's finally less stuffed up.

"We shouldn't be looking for another hunt til you're better," Sam says.

Dean doesn't look up. "Not sick, Sam."

"Uh huh. Sure you're not."

He can only imagine the eye roll. "Shifter in Illinois."

Sam just shakes his head.

* * *

_The next day_

Dean's coughing has gotten worse.

It's a low, gurgling cough; Sam can tell his chest is rattling. He's tried in subtle ways to make his brother rest. He's turned up the heat in the motel room and Impala to create a cozier feeling. When Dean's sick, he tends to fall asleep easier with warmth. He's tried to reassuringly pat his back when he coughs; physical contact is always good. Dean shrugs and pushes him away, retreating further back inside him. Sam wishes he could help.

And, truth be told, he's getting kind of tired of being mad.

Somehow, he feels Dean isn't though.

Dean is driving. Still driving. All they ever do is drive. It's as though hunts only take an hour, and it takes all of this time to get one place to the next. Sam is used to silent car rides. Their dad made them be completely quiet once Sam turned seven and could hold his mouth shut for hours at a time. Dean used to have to entertain him by coloring, singing, or just telling him stories. Once 1990 rolled around, John Winchester promptly told his youngest to can it.

Normally, Sam and Dean talk. They used to talk when Dean drove him to and from school. Once Sam came back into the realm of hunting, their drives were pleasantly filled with conversations. His brother even wanted to hear about everything that happened at Stanford, how great Sam felt, and how badly he missed it. Sam always feels open around his brother. Except for right now, of course. It's getting harder and harder these past few days to play pretend.

Dean coughs, and Sam snaps back into reality. It's a reality where his brother is ill, he himself is exhausted and craving demon blood, and he feels like he's losing grip of who he is. Maybe Dean's right. Maybe he's taking all of this too far. Before he has time to think any further, Dean starts to sputter and cough violently. He lets the wheel slip from between his fingers, and Sam grabs it quickly, pulling them roughly on to the shoulder. Dean hops out and vomits promptly into the grass outside the car.

Sam doesn't get up. His heart pumps wildly, and his mind is racing. He should be out there rubbing his brother's back and helping him. He can't figure out what he's supposed to do. He's so weak and easily irritable from withdrawal; he feels helpless. Sam listens to his brother puke whatever small amount of food is in his stomach, hacking up his lungs immediately afterward. Dean drops on to his ass on the cold snow, his shoulders hunched and visibly shaking.

Sam still can't make his feet move.

* * *

_That night_

It's two thirty in the morning when Sam awakens to the sounds of his brother's ragging coughing. Except, this time, it's not really coughing. It's more of like loudly gasping for air as if he's drowning. After the vomiting episode earlier, Sam has vowed not to waste anymore time pretending. He actually got Dean to agree to take some medicine and to get his brother to pull over. He fought and argued as best as he could with a broken voice, pleading to Sam that they have work to do. Dean never makes anything easy.

Sam jumps out of bed and half-sprints to the bathroom, bare feet feeling as though they're sticking to the old carpet below. He opens to the bathroom door to find Dean hunched over the toilet, kneeling before the throne. His lips are tinged blue and stained with blood. Sam's heart drops into his stomach; he drops to his knees beside his brother. Dean's white t-shirt has splatters of blood covering the collar, presumably where he's been wiping his mouth.

Dean's eyes are totally bloodshot. He's probably blown multiple blood vessels from all of his hacking. His glasses are smashed next to him on the ground, and Sam wonders how exactly that happened. He rubs Dean's back as he continues to throw up blood and green phlegm, shivering with exhaustion. His skin is burning hot, and he's having too much trouble breathing. Sam takes a deep breath himself and pulls Dean into his waiting arms.

Through his sick state, Dean still manages to push him away, grumbling something incoherent.

"That's it, Deano. We're going to the hospital."

Sam tries to pretend he doesn't see the tears streaming down his brother's flushed face as he gasps for air.

* * *

_11:00 p.m._

Sam's spent most of the day holding his brother's hand. It's soft and rough and calloused. Dean uses his hands to fix things. Sam wishes he could fix him. Dean's always had the whole tough guy bravado, but he's never once let that tinge of manliness affect the way he treats Sam. When they were kids, Sam climbed up a tree to get away from his brother. He never made it up, though. His six-year-old body couldn't hoist itself up, and he didn't have the muscle strength he has now. He fell and scraped his hands and knees; Dean fixed him then, too.

The monitors, IVs, and oxygen Dean is hooked up to now are what's fixing him. It's nothing Sam has done. He understands that he's the one who drove him to the hospital, but it's the doctors and nurses who are making him better. Certainly, Sam knows nothing he does will make his brother feel any better. Dean's done everything to help keep him alive, and Sam can't even identify the four warning signs of upcoming illnesses and act upon them.

Sometimes, Dean coughs in his sleep. It's leaps and bounds better than before. It's a bit lighter and filled with less yellow fluid. They've got him on antibiotics to clear the lower double lung pneumonia, which means multiple breathing treatments. Sam knows that they will be here for a while, and he just hopes Dean, once he wakes up, won't want to sign out AMA. However, Sam won't let it get to that point anyway.

Dean shifts in the hospital bed and pops open bloodshot eyes. Sam was right about the blood vessels. The doctors say, even when he's fever free and the pneumonia begins to clear up, he'll be stuck wearing glasses for a few weeks. He looks dazed and confused. He glances over at Sam and tries to grin slightly, giving two weak thumbs up. Sam can already feel the tears swelling in the corners of his eyes. Dean can be so stupid sometimes.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asks, trying to keep his voice low.

Dean shrugs. "Not coughin' up blood anymore..." His voice is wrecked.

Sam lets out an airy chuckle. "I guess that's a plus."

Dean just nods.

"Listen, Dean. I just want you to know how sorry I am. I should've caught on to this earlier."

Another shrug. "Don't expect you to. Not your job."

* * *

_November 26, 2008_

The day Dean is released from the hospital, Sam drives. Dean's still running a fever, still coughing frequently, and still having breathing issues. He can't be trusted behind the wheel. He moans and whines about how badly he wants to drive his baby and, for a split second, Sam feels as though he's getting his brother back. Dean's a quieter guy, but he's never once been this quiet, not even when he and Dad used to fight every night.

By the time they arrive at the motel, his brother is fast asleep against the window of the Impala underneath a quilt Sam stole from the hospital. He shakes his brother awake and helps him inside. Well, he tries to help. Dean pushes him away and gets snarky with, "Dammit, Sam. I'm not friggin' five." Sam just carries their stuff inside and watches Dean practically collapse on to his bed, coughing and rubbing his aching chest.

Dean settles down a few minutes later on top of the comforter with the stolen blanket wrapped around him. He's in a ball on his side, sputtering every few seconds. Sam winces in sympathy. For now, though, he grabs a bottle of ice cold water, his antibiotics, a wet washcloth, and the television remote. He forces Dean to take his medicine and nearly smiles when his brother gives him the most pitiful expression in the world. He places the cloth on his forehead.

Just as he's getting ready to walk to the kitchen table, a cold, clammy hand grabs his wrist.

Dean glances up with big, watery eyes.

He doesn't have to say anything more. Sam already knows.

Sam carefully lies down next to his brother, spooning him from behind. He feels Dean snuggle his back into his chest and hears a sigh of relief (or what Sam prays is relief). Sam drapes his arm around his brother's middle and listens to the soft snores begin to fill the room, accompanied by a few coughs every here and there. For a moment, Sam is content and happy, the weight lifting off his shoulders for the first time in weeks.

He feels something wet drip on to his hand.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Sam's tongue hits the roof of his mouth as he hears his brother whimper in his sleep.

_What have I done to you?_

* * *

**Author's Note:** I really hope you enjoyed your one-shot, Em! Thank you all so much for reading, requesting, and reviewing! =)


	22. Lilith626 (II)

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the wonderfully terrific television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so very much for the reviews, requested, favorites, follows, and for simply reading this!

Lilith626 requested: "Adolescent Dean (14-15ish) helps his dad on a hunt and hides a concussion (he doesn't want to be thought of as being too young/inexperienced to hunt) he received after being thrown around by a vengeful spirit. He goes to school the next day and ends up getting sick (maybe passing out) in gym glass. John has to be called to pick him up." The biggest part of deciding how to write this one is figuring out how I want John to react to this situation. We all know how big of a temper Papa Winchester has!

Here we go! Sam is 10 (turning 11), and Dean is 15.

* * *

Lilith626 (II)

* * *

_April 27, 1994_

It's a typical salt and burn. There isn't much to it, John decides. Plus, Dean's fifteen and overly eager. He's told Dean he would prefer it if he waited another year or two before he came on short trips with him. John would never take his fifteen year old on a month long journey; he still has Sam to think about. His ten year old is staying the night at Bobby's; he was pretty bummed that Dean wouldn't be there with him, but he got over it quickly.

His oldest is loading salt rounds into his rifle, face pinched and focusing hard on the task at hand. John grins. His son is excited for tonight; he can tell. Dean's not a normal fifteen year old. He can fend for himself, recently got a job at a local grocery store since Sam's old enough to be by himself for a few hours, and is incredibly motivated. The kid's got some initiative. Plus, it's always nice to know that Dean will continuously have his back, no matter what.

Dean will make a great hunting partner some day.

Tonight is the night to prove himself.

John pats him lightly on the back, motioning to the door. "Ready to go, kiddo?" he questions. Dean nods, smiles, and stands, nervous jitters wracking his body. John ruffles his hair and leads him out to the Impala. The ride to the cemetery is silent, which is the way he prefers it. Dean stares out the window, biting on his lower lip, clearly freaking out a bit. He decides he'll give his son a bit of a pep talk once they get there; they're going to enjoy the drive first.

Dean begins to chew on his fingernails. His insides are quivering with uncertainty. He really doesn't want to screw this one up. His dad will be pissed. Dean's been practicing, though, so he's hoping everything will go his way. He's made Sam help him set up mock salt and burns, even ones where the spirits get a bit violent. He can handle himself. His heart stops beating for a few split seconds when his dad puts the Impala into park.

His father glances over at him, smiling lightly.

"Nervous?"

Dean gulps. "A little, sir."

John shakes his head and chuckles airily. "You'll do great, Dean. You did good during our practice session earlier."

Dean nods and stares out the window, breathing heavily. His knees shake as he stands up, rifle in hand. He throws it over his shoulder and quietly shuts car door; his dad doesn't like it when he and Sam slam the door. His teeth chatter, even though it's late April. Sam's birthday is in a few days. He tries to think about how excited his kid brother will be once he opens his presents. Dad will be gone by then, but Dean will make sure May 2nd is a great day for Sam.

The to the grave is silent. Dean continues thinking about Sam. His dad pats his back again once they arrive. "You've got this," he says to himself. He lets out a shaky sigh, lets his gun slide on to the blanket beside his father's, and begins to dig. He knows his father is watching his every move, eying him carefully for mistakes. He isn't too young for this, and he will gain experience with each time his dad lets him take the reigns.

John watches his son anxiously dig into the ground, huffing every few seconds. At one point, Dean uses his shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat forming on his brow. He's told his son before that his asthma isn't an excuse; he's going to hunt. Sure, he isn't going to be a dick about it. If he's clearly struggling, he'll let him take a break to grab a quick puff off his inhaler, but then it's back to work. If Dean's serious about the line of work like he wants him to be, he'll understand.

The instant the blond teen makes contact with the coffin, something strange occurs. The shovel is thrown out of his hands by an invisible force. He scrambles out of the hole to grab his rifle, his chest aching and squirming. John immediately reaches down to grab his gun, panicking when he watches the ghost lift his son up by his jacket hood. The spirit whips Dean aside like it's nothing. John's stomach drops when he hears the clear thud of his skull hitting a tombstone.

John quickly takes care of the spirit. He figures the damn thing probably sensed his son's clear apprehension. He salts and burns the bastard before running over to his son. Dean's got a gash on his forehead that's bleeding rapidly, and there's already a bruise forming on the side of his head. John winces in sympathy and carefully picks his unconscious son up. He makes sure Dean's in the car before he goes to retrieve their belongings.

_Maybe this wasn't such a good idea._

* * *

_The next day_

Dean's head is pounding. His eyes burn as he tries to concentrate on the history homework that's due tomorrow. This is one of those desperate times where he almost wishes he could stay home from school tomorrow. Dad only allows that when he and/or Sam are running fevers. Dean knows he doesn't have a temperature, so that options out the window. He rubs his eyes and cringes when his fingers make contact with the side of his head.

Kids at school will probably wonder why he has twelve stitches in his forehead and why there's a giant ass purple and blue bruise beneath his hair. Dean's got dirty blond hair, so he knows they will be able to see it. No one really talks to him there anyway, but he doesn't need a reason to draw attention to himself. He drops the pencil and pillows his throbbing head in his arms. He tells himself that he's just going to rest his eyes.

Right as the uncomfortable sensation in his skull becomes tolerable, Sam slams the door the bedroom, stomping over to his brother. Dean glances up at him with bleary and wet eyes; he's far too exhausted to deal with Sam's issues. He lets his younger brother vent about how Dad wouldn't let him spend the night with Uncle Bobby. The almost eleven year old claims he is so tired of staying at this apartment and hates his new school.

"Look on the bright side, Sammy. We won't be here much longer," he says. Sam sits on his bed, his socked feet dangling over the edge. Dean can tell his brother is pissed off and upset. He's been getting picked on at school, and Dean can't quite process why. He's smart, pretty quiet, and does all of his work, usually without a word. School Sammy is much different than Home Sammy. At home, Sam is dependent on his brother, while he holds his own at school.

Some dumb jackasses called Sam a "freak" a few days ago. Ever since then, it seems as though his normally calm sixth grade brother has been hypersensitive about almost everything. Dean's been in the same boat as Sam. Constantly being the new kid in school leaves people with a shit ton of questions and makes him stand out more than he wants. Sam isn't willing to talk about what's really been going on, which is why Dean plans to make his mark as older brother sooner rather than later. Perhaps he'll even talk to those twerps tomorrow.

With one throbbing pulse of his skull, he decides that's a bad idea.

"Sammy," Dean coaxes.

The brunette looks up, but doesn't say anything.

"School will get easier, bud. Don't let those asshats know it bothers you so much."

Sam just shrugs. With that, Dean knows the conversation is over. He stands up from his desk and sways on his feet, holding his forehead with his hand as the room spins. His brother clearly is pretending he didn't see a thing, and, for that, Dean is thankful. The last thing his head needs is for people to be poking and prodding at it. The older Winchester puts his arm around the shoulders of the younger and leads them into the living room.

Dad's already asleep, so Dean figures the kid deserves a few hours of television.

Sam passes out with his head pillow in Dean's lap during a new episode of _Full House_.

Dean swallows the vomit rising in his throat.

* * *

_April 29, 1994_

Dean hates gym with a fiery passion. He doesn't understand why shooting guns can't classify as a sport but cheerleading can... The kids look at him strangely, as if he doesn't feel out of place enough as it is. They probably notice the scar on his left leg from shattering it when he was thirteen. Three pins had to be placed, and the limp was noticeable until early this year. Dean rolls his eyes as some jerks slap each others asses, slamming his locker closed.

Their school has this stupid uniform rule, too. Grey t-shirt with the school's name and logo on it, as well as blue basketball shorts. Girls and guys are separated into two different gym classes; that's honestly what bums out Dean the most. If he's forced to participate in a game where a bunch of jocks through balls at peoples' heads, shouldn't girls at least be on the agenda? Needless to say or explain, Dean hates this place the most.

As they go for their few laps around the gym to get warmed up, Dean's head pounds with each step. He's pretty fast, even for having asthma. He's never really had any stamina issues; his dad makes him and Sam run all the time. Today, though, his chest is tight and wheezy, and his head is killing him. He doesn't want to do this right now, so he just stops running and walks with his hands behind his head, something coaches force him to do when he's winded.

The coach probably doesn't think anything of it, he decides. He's fast and all, but he can't run forever. Dean pulls his blue inhaler out of his pocket and takes a huff, giving the coach a thumbs up when he starts to approach a bit worriedly. Dean starts to jog once again. His stomach is revolting against his each movement, but he doesn't stop running. His head is skipping like a CD in an old radio, making him so queasy that he can hardly stand it.

Suddenly, he feels himself fall to his knees with no warning. A hot sea of yellow and orange erupts from his esophagus all over the newly cleaned floors below. He grips his stomach and coughs up more vomit. He feels someone pull him up, dragging him along with them. Puke is dribbling down his chin and on to his shirt. He grips his head harshly with his hands. He hears the mystery person ask if he's okay with panic in their voice.

And that's when everything goes black.

* * *

_Later on_

Dean is lying on a cot in the nurse's office with an icepack for his head. The nurse made him do a bunch of stupid tests, none of which made the fifteen year old feel any better. She's not allowed to administer any pain medication since his dad didn't sign his health forms when he started here. So, now, Dad's going to be pissed. The frail old lady had to call him, and he's on his way to pick him up. Apparently, he isn't well enough to continue on with school today.

Since he's been in a horizontal position for almost two hours, his head feels a bit better. Less throbbing. The stitches pulse on his forehead every time he breathes, though. The pain is manageable. Dean's half asleep in the chilly room when he hears the door click open. John Winchester is wearing an old Marines shirt and jeans. No stubble. Dean guesses he shaved for this. His father even shakes her hand.

"Mr. Winchester, are you aware that your son has a concussion?"

John rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. He figured this would happen. Dean's been showing classic signs; he knows all too well from past experience. He's barely eaten a thing since two days ago, is exhausted, mixing up his words when he talks to him or Sam, and has been taking Advil to relieve the pain constantly. "No, I did not," he says. Obviously, the only protocol here is that they get out of this office without her calling Child Protective Services.

"Well, he does. And, from what I can assess here, it's a pretty bad one. What happened?"

John shrugs. "He and his brother were wrestling, and things got a little hairy. You know, boys will be boys."

The nurse puts her hands on her hips. "That may be the case, Mr. Winchester, but Dean needs rest. With the welt like that and those stitches, he should be at home in bed, not at school. And certainly not in gym class. Do you realize how serious concussions can be?"

John nods and sincerely smiles. "Mrs. Archer, I can assure you that he'll take it easy for the next few days."

His father motions for him to stand. He swings his legs over the side of the cot and cradles his spinning and aching head in his hands. He feels his dad pull his shoulder lightly, helping him stand. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and walks outside. The late April sun is an unwelcomed sight to Dean's fragile eyes. John hands him the sunglasses perched on the top of his head, and Dean accepts them gratefully.

"Thank you, sir."

John opens the Impala door for his son. He knows none of this is Dean's fault. It's a good thing he wasn't on a hunt though. In all honesty, he was just kind of waiting to see how Dean was feeling. Now, he knows he's not okay. John's done some pretty terrible things to his oldest son in the past, from screaming at him at twelve for calling him while hunting with Bobby when Sam had chickenpox to leaving two days after he got his appendix removed when he was thirteen. This time, John's determined to not screw this up.

"I'm really sorry about this, Deano."

Dean's eyebrows furrow as he stares out the window of the family car.

_Dad never apologizes._

* * *

_May 2, 1994_

"Happy birthday, Sammy!" John and Dean say in unison.

Five days ago, Dean got his head slammed into a tombstone by an angry spirit. Three days ago, John renewed his son's trust in him. Today, right now, is Sam's eleventh birthday. Since Dean's had a few days off, he figures one day wouldn't hurt Sam. The youngest Winchester eagerly rips into his presents. John has plans to take both boys to the park later on and barbeque hamburgers and hot dogs. They'll throw around the baseball and football.

Just like father and sons are supposed to.

Dean smiles as he watches Sam open up the four new books he purchased him with the money he makes from Old Man Miller's Grocery. Sam's a nerd, and nerds like books; it's a perfect match. Dad got Sam a new Walkman, a few CDs, and a remote control helicopter. Sam runs up and hugs both of them with great love and intensity. Sure, Dean's head still hurts, and he'll probably have a scar on his forehead for a couple years, but it's all worth it.

For the first time in his whole life, Dean feels like they're actually a family.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Lilith626! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	23. QueenWoofy

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews, requests, and for reading!

QueenWoofy requested: "I would love to see Dean taking care of a sick human Cas and then he gets sick. Cas tries to take care of Dean by doing the same things Dean did for him, but he keeps messing up as adorably as only Cas can." I love these kinds of fics! Cas and Dean are too cute for words, but I hate shipping them together. They're best friends! It's like slashing Wincest... Sam and Dean are _brothers_, people. Sorry, rant over.

This is set in season nine. Sam doesn't know Ezekiel is possessing him.

* * *

QueenWoofy

* * *

_October 22, 2013_

It's a quiet autumn morning. There's frost covering their windows and the grass outside; Dean wraps his arms around his chest, quickly turning the heat up. He knows his hair is probably a wreck and that his sweats are barely clinging on to his frame. They're Sam's anyway. With his brother gone for the fifth day in a row and not due back for another two, Dean's been a little...lonely. Sure, Cas and Kevin are here, but it's nothing like being with his brother.

Dean figures it may rain today. Dark, luminous clouds roll overhead. No thunder or lightning yet, though. He doesn't want the weather to change; he's perfectly happy with it being mid-70s all year long. The cold brings this sense of sadness that's bone deep and unshakable until spring comes back around. They're t-minus eleven days until the thirtieth anniversary of their mom's death. Dean gulps and pads around the bunker, searching for signs of life.

Kevin's assortment of textbooks, two laptops, and thousands of sheets of yellow notebook paper clutter their main table. A half-eaten chocolate donut, three glasses of random liquid, a few juice pouches, and a bag of Doritos leads Dean to believe Kevin pulled another all-nighter. The kid probably just went to bed right before he woke up. Dean scratches his head and slides on his socks down to the room Cas is staying in, hoping he'll be awake.

It's only 5:30, but Cas is an ex-angel, so he figures he might be up and alert. Dean knocks quietly before creaking the door open. The room is pitch black except for the faint light of the TV echoing off the walls. The older Winchester steps all the way in, turning on the lamp beside Cas's bed. The shorter man is sprawled out on top of his comforter, his head buried beneath his soft pillow. He's wearing nothing but a red t-shirt that seems to belong to Dean and white and blue checkered boxers (_feelin' American today, aren't we?)_. Cas is snoring wickedly.

Dean shakes Cas's back. It's not that he wants to disturb him, but he's bored. They need groceries, and he's certainly not driving that old clunker in the garage Sam bought. To Dean, Sam should use that other _thing,_ and Dean should always drive his baby. He gave up when his little brother continuously whined and moaned about going on a hunt by himself. He hates hearing and seeing Sam revert back to his five year old ways.

Cas removes his head from underneath the pillow, glancing up at Dean with bloodshot eyes.

"Dude, what's up with you?" Dean questions, his loud, low voice booming. Cas covers his ears with the palms of his hands, laying his aching skull back against the warmth of his bed. He tries to curl in on himself, but his muscles are too sore to really do much with. Not to mention, his throat feels as though he's swallowing razor blades. Kind of like Luke Wallace from about five years ago. He sniffles and grimaces as snot drips down his esophagus.

What is wrong with him?

Dean, knowing all too well what these strange signs mean, place his hand on Cas's forehead. The ex-angel doesn't move even an inch, completely opposite of what Sam would have done. Cas's brow is clammy and scalding hot, indicating his fever is just now starting up as opposed to breaking. Shit. Why does this have to happen when he's the only one here?

"Symptoms?" Dean asks quietly.

Cas shrugs.

"C'mon, man. I can't help you unless I know what's wrong."

What's wrong is that the brunette is too exhausted to breathe, let alone think. Humans are weird. Humans are weak. And humans have a tendency to get ill. A lot. And that's what Cas is guessing this whole situation is. During the short length of time he's been human, he's learned a lot. He's learned to shower and apply deodorant. He's learned what the tingling sensation in his bladder means. And he's learned how to perfect his PB&amp;J preparation skills.

So far, he hasn't been sick. Up until now, that is.

Cas knows what illness is, even though he's never fully experienced it. It's the times when Sam sleeps for two days straight and wakes up with wicked "bed head." It's the times where Dean wears glasses and pretends to not be aware that he's wearing his little brother's hooded jacket. And it's the times where the brothers take care of each other the most, mainly because one is usually vomiting, which Cas thinks is just unpleasant.

"My throat," is all Cas squeaks out. His voice is at least two octaves higher and scratchy.

Dean turns on the light in the bedroom; Cas winces. "Open your mouth," he commands lightly. Dean's sighing before he even sees the white spots in the back of his throat. Strep. Awesome. Sam was notorious for this when they were kids. It seemed like he would get this from some gross kid in his class every few weeks. Sam has a heightened sensitivity to this illness, so Dean always has the proper antibiotics for it on hand.

He figures the other common symptoms are there, too. Definitely a fever and a sore throat. Cas's lymph nodes are visibly swollen, he's a bit on the congested side, and he's shaking. Dean hoists the ex-angel up. Cas is a few inches shorter and weighs less than both he and Sam, but he's not easy to transport to the bathroom. He sits him down on the toilet, rummages through the cabinets, and has Cas swallow the antibiotic. He watches him struggle to make it go down smoothly.

"Listen, bud, I know you don't feel good, but you need a shower. I promise you feel better once it's over," Dean says. He turns on the water to a comfortable fever temperature, which is nearly boiling hot. He's not going to let Cas shiver to death. He knows he's never actually been sick before, and this has to be confusing for the new human. Dean knows the illness routine, and he's just going to apply the same one he uses for his baby brother.

Dean helps Cas out of his t-shirt. Cas is on the verge of tears, swallowing painfully every few seconds. He grips on to his throat and massages it gently with his fingers. The brunette is focusing hard on not throwing up. His stomach feels different. Not like when he's full of peanut butter and jelly and not like when he's craving more peanut butter and jelly. It's gurgling angrily. He rubs his stomach carefully. This isn't a good sign.

Cas somehow manages to push the puke back. He doesn't know if his throat could tolerate the feeling. He slides down to where he's sitting in the shower, letting the warm water wash over him. Dean's right, so far. It's lulling him to sleep and helping him relax to a point where he's not sure he can stay awake. He doesn't say a word when Dean starts to shampoo his hair. The scent of peppermint fills his nostrils. Cas doesn't feel well enough to protest.

Somehow, and he swears he can't remember, he ends up wearing an old long sleeved shirt and plaid pajama pants. They're probably a size too big for him; he figures they're Dean's. He's lying down in his bed. The television is still on some infomercial. He coughs and groans. Cas thinks his throat may actually kill him. He feels the comforter being tugged over his aching body and sees the light being turned off.

"Get some rest, Cas."

* * *

_Later that day_

Cas is lying on the old leather couch, half-asleep. His mind is groggy and cloudy from the medication. For the first time, his agony ripping shreds throughout his throat is manageable. Some cooking show is on the TV, and he quickly changes the channel, his stomach not exactly ready for solid food just yet. Dean said his diet is probably going to be liquids for the next few days until his throat heals. Needless to say, this means no PB&amp;Js.

The human's eyes flutter open when he feels the couch dip. Dean sits down next to him, patting his leg comfortingly. He holds out a green thing in some sort of plastic tube to Cas. He eyes it carefully before grabbing ahold of it, noticing how icy cold it feels against the flesh of his palm. He notices the top of the tube is slit open, a bit of green juice running over the edges. _What am I supposed to do with this?_

"It's a Popsicle, dude. For your throat," Dean says.

Cas is still unsure. "What I am going to do with it?"

Dean shakes his head and laughs. "You eat it. It's food."

"This is unlike any food I've ever seen," he informs his friend, his voice hoarse. Now, the pain is starting to return. Cas rubs his neck again, his eyes drooping a bit more already. He now fully understands what the term "suck ass" means because this most certainly does indeed suck ass. Still, though, Cas trusts Dean. He sticks it in his mouth and uses two fingers to push up the sugary substance. The green liquid soothes his throat immensely and tastes like limes. The coldness is a welcomed feeling, and he finishes the Popsicle within seconds.

"Want another one?" Dean inqures.

Cas nods, gratefully accepting the cherry flavored one next.

* * *

_That night_

Dean grabs Cas another long sleeved thermal and helps shuck the ex-angel's soiled shirt off of him. Cas got a little too crazy with the Popsicles and ended up squirting a blueberry one all over the white material he was wearing. It's nearly eleven at night, and, even though he's been dozing on and off all day, the now human version of his friend needs to sleep a full eight hours, or possibly more. Whatever amount it takes for him to feel better.

The dark blond Winchester knows he's caught the strep early. He should no longer be contagious within the next twenty-four hours, which is perfect. Sam can't catch this. He has no idea how Cas managed to, but Dean will dread this much more if his brother gets sick. Sam with strep throat takes weeks to fully recover; it's just one illness that his body has never handled well. Dean looks forward to tomorrow when maybe Cas will feel a bit better.

Dean swallows harshly as he pulls the comforter over a now clean and sleeping Cas.

Tomorrow will be better.

* * *

_The next morning_

Dean wakes up shaking. His hands are like ice to his hot face, and his throat is on fire. He rolls over in bed and winces, gripping at his esophagus as if he can remove the problem on his own. He sits up, swaying with dizziness as he pushes himself again his headboard, panting heavily. Each breath makes his throat hurt worse. Tears are already forming in the corners of his eyes. _This seriously cannot be happening._

He doesn't have the strength, voice, or energy to call out to anyone. He figures Kevin may hear him, but it's unlikely. Cas is sick too, so that wouldn't work. Sam isn't due home until tomorrow. Dean puts his head in his hands, shivering as the cold autumn air smacks his upper body full force. His throat hurts so badly that he's sure it cannot be humanly possible. He sinks back down into bed, curling into a ball and covering himself up.

Dean's semi-asleep when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Cas, still wearing pajamas and rocking some fantastic bed head, is eyeing him carefully, clearly examining him. Dean throws the comforter back over himself, trying his best to ignore Cas. He hears the pitter patter of footsteps and believes the ex-angel has left his room. He breathes out a horribly agonizing sigh of relief, running a quivering hand through his hair.

He doesn't want Cas to see him sick.

"Open your mouth, Dean."

"Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?"

Cas sticks his fingers into Dean's mouth to pry it open to look for whatever he saw yesterday that lead him to the correct diagnosis.

"Pfft! Ow, dude!" Dean grabs his sore jaw and massages it gently, scowling at Cas. He rolls on to his stomach and pillows his head in his arms, searching for new sources of warmth. Just as he does this, Cas throws his blankets off of his body, fully exposing it to freezing temperatures for a sick guy. "Jesus Christ!" his hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. What the hell is Cas's freaking issue?!

Cas chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully. What seemed to be working with him yesterday doesn't seem to be helping with Dean. He knows Dean's running a fever and presumably has just as sore of a throat as he does. While Cas still feels run down and entirely exhausted, he knows how yesterday felt to him. He doesn't want his best friend to suffer through that kind of pain when all he did was try his best to relieve it.

"You need to shower, and then you'll feel better when it is over," Cas informs him, trying to pick Dean up from beneath his armpits, much like one would do for a petulant child. Dean immediately pushes him away, grumbling and groaning. Instead of being practically carried like Cas was less than twenty-four hours ago, the older Winchester walks to the bathroom himself. Cas shoves him on to the toilet seat, quickly turning on the shower water.

Dean, once again, tries to hug himself warm. His teeth are chattering, and he feels the sweat pouring down his face and pooling on to his thermal. Cas somehow manages to remove his shirt and pull his hair at the same time, causing small whimpers to erupt from his ill friend. Dean wants Sam to come home right now. Tears swell in the corners of his eyes and spill over his cheeks, partly and honestly because his friggin' hair hurts.

The water Cas practically tosses him into is lukewarm and volatile to his sore skin. Dean immediately switches it to full blast, relishing the warmth as it floods over his aching body. He sits in the shower with his head tucked between his knees to fight off the waves of dizziness slamming into his body like an ocean. It's an old trick Dad taught him when he and Sam were little kids if they felt like they were going to throw up.

"Dude, get off!" Dean shouts the second he feels Cas start to rub _something_ through his hair.

"I am just doing what you did yesterday," Cas tells him.

Dean creaks open his eyes and reads the bottle he has in his grips. "This is body wash!"

"Oh..."

* * *

_A few hours later_

Dean hasn't gotten any sleep since Cas forced him out of bed this morning. He's literally shaking with exhaustion. His cheeks are permanently burning, and his hands are forever icicles. He's lying on the couch with his flushed face smushed into the pillows, focusing all of his remaining energy on trying to get some rest. Cas has been poking and prodding him for hours, and he would be screaming in his face if he had anything to scream with.

"Would you like a Popsicle, Dean?" Cas asks, holding out a red one to his friend. Dean doesn't seem to be responding well to any of the treatments he himself gave him yesterday. Cas doesn't fully understand why nothing seems to be working. Dean's fever is actually up now, and he's having a harder time breathing. Cas knows Dean has asthma, which gets worse in the colder months. Maybe that's the issue that they're running into.

Dean shakes his head. "N'thanks."

Out of nowhere, Cas shoves the blue inhaler Dean's had since he was kid into his mouth, puffing out three pumps. Dean chokes and instantly sits up, coughing from nearly being choked to death. He grips at his throat with one hand and his chest with the other. Sweat pours into his eyes. His throat is shrieking violently with agony. His whole body shivers as he kicks the blanket from his room away. _Why is this happening to me?_

Cas sees the tears running down Dean's cheeks. He rubs his back comfortingly, only to have Dean shrug him away, scooting down toward the end of the couch. His friend curls into a ball and faces the interior of the leather, clearly wanting to block out anything and everything from his view. Cas really doesn't understand humans and how one thing can work for one and the same thing can't work for the other. He scratches his head.

And then he hears Dean whimper into the cushions.

_What am I supposed to do?_

* * *

_October 24, 2013_

Sam returns to the bunker to find a sticky mess of Popsicles and his incredibly ill brother.

The thermometer beeps at 104; Sam immediately gets Dean into an ice bath, holding on to his hand as his brother shakes for dear life. It only takes an instant for the younger Winchester to realize he has strep throat. He cringes as his older brother clings on to his shirt as he helps change him once the fever is down to just below 102. It's been a week since he's seen him, and he didn't figure he would come home to finding this.

Once Dean is settled into bed courtesy of NyQuil and antibiotics, Sam returns to the kitchen and living room to clean up the pools of sugar scattered in random places, ranging from behind the couch to the ceiling. He is in the middle of scratching away a blue spot when Cas walks up behind him and sits down in a chair. He watches the ex-angel pillow his head in his arms and notices how pale and lethargic he seems.

"You too, huh?" Sam asks.

Cas raises his head. "What?" His voice is shot, but the pain in his throat is much better today.

"You've got strep too?"

"What's strep?"

Sam chucks slightly. "Never mind. When did you guys get sick?"

Cas shrugs. "I'm not sure."

Sam notices that Cas isn't really answering any questions, which is completely unlike him. Ever since they met five years ago, the angel-turned-human has known the solutions to every problem they've had. He's their "go to" guy when they're confused about something that Sam himself can't answer. He knows the shorter brunette is sick, but this doesn't account for why he's acting so distant when he's clearly comfortable with both brothers.

"What's going on with you?" Sam asks, sitting down next to him.

Cas shrugs again. "Your brother...he does not seem to like me when he's ill."

The ex-angel explains misusing the body wash as shampoo and thinking Dean needed his inhaler when he didn't. He explains throwing him into the shower when the water was too cold and dropping an entire package of opened Popsicles on the floor. Sam nods as he listens to the feverish man give recounts of how he's tried to treat his brother. The younger Winchester now understands why Cas may feel upset.

"Don't worry about it, Cas. You've never been sick before. Dean's done this thousands of times."

Cas understands that.

Then why does he feel so bad?

* * *

_That evening_

Cas is sprawled out beneath two comforters when Dean enters the room, padding in softly. Sam is still typing away at the table where he just left him. His brother explained how terrible Cas feels because of this whole mess. Dean figures the only thing he can do is help his best friend feel better. Dean carefully crawls next to the sleeping ex-angel and watches as his eyes groggily pop open in the darkness.

"D'n?" Cas slurs. "What's going on? Is your illness worse?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to say thanks."

"For what?"

"For earlier. You really helped me out."

Cas's eyebrows furrow. "I did not help you. I only made things worse."

Dean shakes his head once again. "You're new to this, buddy."

They're both still ill, not feeling one hundred percent, and clearly exhausted. Without warning, Cas snuggles his face into Dean's chest, breathing out a sleepy "I'm sorry" that's so quiet he barely hears it. The older Winchester lets out an airy chuckle and wraps his arms around the smaller brunette. Screw the "no touchy feely" crap for the night. Afterall, Dean has done this for Sam more times than he can count.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, QueenWoofy! Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	24. Thegirlwhowaited24601

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for the reviews, follows, favorites, requests, and for simply reading! You guys have no idea how much I appreciate it! =)

I am on Spring Break from March 13 until March 22. During this time, my updates may not occur daily. I will try as best as I can to pre-write the chapters (like I'm doing right now) in my free time. No matter what, I can assure you that I will update at least a few times during that nine-day span. By then, though, I may not have any requests left to write! I only have a few more to write, so keep submitting if you want me to write one of yours! =)

Once I feel like everyone has submitted requests who wants one written, I will label this story as "completed."

Thegirlwhowaited24601 requested: "Could you maybe write one where they are in the bunker and Dean gets hit by a spell causing him to lose his memory temporarily, and Sam and Cas have to take care of a semi-crazy, confused Dean?" This one is going to be really great to write! I am going to write a bit of angst in here, but there will be some fluffy memories between the brothers and their angel buddy! Thanks for the great request! It's definitely unique!

This is an AU set in between seasons eight and nine.

* * *

Thegirlwhowaited24601

* * *

_June 10, 2013_

"What are you doing?" Sam questions harshly, grabbing his confused brother's arm. Dean's reaching for the cereal on top of the refrigerator. Their expired carton of milk has been pulled out the trashcan, and there's a spoon with orange, crusted over _something_ covering the surface set on the kitchen counter. His brother just looks at him like he's nuts, his eyebrows raised and his eyes nearly glazed over in uncertainty, which tells Sam the issue is only getting worse.

Dean shrugs. "Getting breakfast. What the hell's it look like I'm doing?"

"You already had breakfast, Dean. It's almost," Sam glances down at his watch, "midnight."

On any normal occasion, Sam would never stop his brother from eating breakfast food toward the end of the day instead of at the beginning. This, however, is anything but typical. While they were out on a hunt yesterday, Dean was hit with a witch's spell. Said spell happened to knock him flat on his ass, as well as make him lose his memory. The witch uttered something about it being three days before his brother returns to his usual self before Sam burned her to death.

"Who are you?" Dean inquires, stepping backwards and removing Sam's hand from his arm.

Sam rolls his eyes; it's only the ten millionth time he's been asked this today. "I'm your brother."

"I don't have a brother."

Sam shrugs. "Well, you do today."

The answer seems to satisfy Dean, who decides to walk into the living room. He sits down on the couch, turns on the TV, and Sam hopes he'll settle down for the night. Sam sits across from him in the leather recliner, teetering back and forth. His brother is focusing intently on the bright colors emanating from the episode of _Spongebob_ he's watching. The younger Winchester, entirely exhausted from the day's events, closes his eyes.

Only to have them pop back open moments later.

Dean is shucking off his jeans, letting them slide to the concrete, followed by his socks. The second Sam sees his brother's thumbs around the waistband of his plaid boxers, he immediately jumps up. "Woah, Dean!" He stops him from pulling down his underwear and going full commando in the middle of the living room. For all he knows, newly human Cas or an angry Kevin could wake up at any moment, and he's sure they don't want to see this.

"What's going on?" Dean asks, his voice quivering and tears swelling in the corners of his eyes.

Sam's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. Having Dean in this state has resurrected some of their demons. Dean can't remember Mom dying (neither can Sam, but he was only six months old). Dean can't remember that they're hunters that travel the United States in search for all things evil. Dean can't even remember he has a little brother, even though Dean has always put Sam in front of himself. It really hurts Sam, and he hates that stupid bitch of a witch.

The younger Winchester helps his brother back into his jeans, figuring Dean will be getting a bit chilly. He sits him back down on the couch and tries to swallow his own tears when Dean lays his head on his shoulder. Everything about him is so not Dean-like. He's completely open and vulnerable and even cries when he's upset about whatever is going on in his confused mind, something he's only seen his brother do a handful of times in the thirty years he's been alive.

"Dean, I know nothing really makes sense to you right now, but you're okay. I'm your brother, Sam. And earlier yesterday you were hit with a spell that made you lose your memory. Don't worry, though. It'll come back to you." Sam has no idea how he's going to make it through this next day with his brother being so out of it. Even when Dean's sick and feverish and throwing up all over the place, he still has more sense than this shell inside his brother's body.

His brother sniffles. "Where's Dad?"

Sam gulps and prepares to answer this question for the third time in less than two hours; he's surprised it isn't more. Judging by Dean's behaviors and the questions he asks, he still has pieces of his memory floating around in that mind of his. He can't process them or string them together. Sam guesses that he remembers he has a father and that he was their main caregiver. He doesn't really know, though, and that's the hardest part.

"He died, Dean. Years ago. But we have each other, and that's always been enough."

Tears stream down his brother's flushed cheeks, and Sam can feel him quivering against him. With the persistent crying episodes, he's bound to make himself sick by the end of these three days. He's kind of shocked it hasn't happened already. Sam knows all too well from his own life that crying jags like these lead to either migraines or a fever; he can't count how many times he's done the same thing to himself over guilt or anger or whatever emotion he was feeling.

"How did he die?"

Sam sighs and grabs ahold of Dean's hand. "He sacrificed himself. You see, a few years back, we were all in a bad car accident. Me and Dad came out alright, but you were in a coma. Dad made a deal with a demon to get you back." He's tried lying a few times, but that leaves Dean with more questions than answers, so he's resorted to digging through his heart and soul to find ways to explain it. The truth typically works the best.

"Oh," Dean whispers.

Sam carefully stands up with his arm wrapped around the shorter man, pulling him close for comfort. This version of Dean is a hugging machine, as he found out from Cas earlier, so he knows this may help. After their hug, the tears stop flowing on to Sam's t-shirt. He half-carries and stumbles with his brother barely cooperating down the hall to Sam's bedroom, where he quietly lays Dean down in his bed. He doesn't bother changing him.

Dean's asleep before Sam curls up next to him.

* * *

_June 11, 2013_

"Dean!" Cas shrieks. He grabs his spoon back from the crazy man and goes back to eating his cereal. Dean is having this...issue. He thinks everything Cas eats is his. So, he's been stealing all sorts of things from him. Currently, Dean wants his cereal. Coco Puffs. They're chocolatey goodness to Cas's taste buds, but he can't quite enjoy them unless the older Winchester leaves him alone. The ex-angel rolls his eyes and huffs, pulling his bowl closer to him.

"Who are you?" Dean inquires, rummaging around in the silverware drawer.

Cas stands up and removes Dean's hands from the knives. They're just butter knives, but still. "I am Castiel. You like to call me Cas. I am...used to be an angel of the Lord."

"Oh!" Dean says, sitting back down at the table, only to bounce back up in an instant.

Sam enters the kitchen and shoves his brother until he's at the table once again. "Breakfast, dude."

Dean takes a seat between his brother and his best friend, waiting so impatiently to get his bowl of cereal that he ends up stealing Cas's when he stands to get more milk. The ex-angel groans and pulls out another bowl, seriously considering removing this six-year-old-like child/adult thing from this bunker. He doesn't get frustrated easily, but damn. Dean's like a hyper toddler who can't remember a freaking thing no matter how many times they explain it to him.

Things get quiet. Really quiet. Dean continues eating his cereal.

Cas and Sam exchange worried glances, noticing the silence.

Just as they're back to enjoying their meal, Dean starts to unbutton his jeans.

* * *

_That evening_

"That's it!" Cas screams from his bedroom.

Sam immediately hops off his bed and runs down the hall. "What?"

"I can't stand it anymore! I can't even eat in my own room without him stealing it from me!"

Here he finds Dean curled up on Cas's bed with his arm elbow-deep in a bag of Fritos, his face smearing with peanut butter and jelly. Sam just bursts into laughter. If anything good has come out of this curse, it's that his brother can't stop eating or stealing food from only Cas or pulling off his pants. He's like a drunken old man in a nursing home. Part of Sam is actually entertaining heavily by how friggin' crazy his brother is being.

"I want my Fritos back," Cas says, grabbing the bag back from Dean.

Sam just rolls his eyes.

* * *

_June 12, 2013_

Dean's pantless and asleep at the kitchen table with a storm of half-eaten food swarming him. An old ham and a cheese sandwich, some Fruit Loops, the bag of Fritos he stole from Cas again, and three donuts are just a few of the items. He has tear tracks staining his flushed face. His nose is tinged red. His hair is flat against his forehead. The sight is frightening to Sam, who has just woken up from his resting place on the couch and is still completely wiped out.

"Buddy," Sam says, shaking his brother with one hand and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other.

"Nhhnnnmmm..." Dean mumbles, coughing into the table.

Sam puts his hand on his forehead and sighs. Fever. Great.

As if these past three days haven't been bad enough.

"'m I not w'rin' pants?" Dean asks as he removes his face from the sticky surface and glances down at his lap.

His brother chuckles. "Don't worry about it, dude."

It's too long of a story.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, Thegirlwhowaited24601! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	25. PurpleRings

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. Jensen, Jared, and Misha would be great additions to my life!

* * *

Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews and requests and for reading! I truly do appreciate it more than you'll ever know! =)

My Spring Break starts today! Only one more sociology assignment to go! Here's a good way to start it off though:

PurpleRings requested: "Can I maybe have some hurt purgatory!Dean and Benny and Cas need to take care of him, but Cas can't heal him because his power is low." Purgatory looked so terrible whenever Dean was down there! I wish the writers had played on how traumatized he was a little bit more, maybe with not wanting to eat or being depressed. Being trapped in a place with monsters and being the only human definitely can't be easy.

This is set after the season seven finale, but before the start of season eight. Slightly AU.

* * *

PurpleRings

* * *

_Unknown_

Purgatory is a disgusting place.

Not only does Dean have to contend with being the only human down in this dump, he has to watch his every step. Anything and everything evil and nasty was banished down here. He can't sleep. He can't eat. Hell, he can't even breathe without feeling like someone is watching him constantly. It feels as though the night is never ending, even though it's daylight down here just like it's daylight on earth. The light is "different," though.

On earth, sunlight makes one feel warm. Even in the depths of winter during a snowstorm, one can still seek out comfort from the sun. It grazes one's skin, and that "ahhh" sensation washes and takes over in an instant. Down here in purgatory, the sun makes it colder. Every movement is unwelcomed, every thought scarred by the pure evil that resides in this place. Dean can't quite put his finger on how to describe _this_ situation that he's in.

Like he said with Hell, there simply are no words.

Dean hasn't had any actual meet to eat in days. There are no pigs and cows and chickens down here. Some monsters have meat on them, sure, but it isn't anything for humans to eat. He's resorted to only chewing on leaves and sometimes tree bark when he's hungry enough. Dean's sure his stomach has long since collapsed on itself, shriveled away somewhere as deep and dark as this place. He hasn't felt actual hunger pains in what he would assume are weeks.

Time is irrelevant here. Obviously, there isn't even a system of time here. Dean's wristwatch is stuck on 5:54 p.m., which is the precise moment he killed Dick and was shoved down here with him. He can't remember the date, but his watch has a little "18" in the corner. Of what month, he's not sure. He wishes he knew. To get by, Dean thinks of the little things, like water and burgers and pie and his brother. He thinks about Sam a lot.

He wonders what the hell he's doing up there. Often times, he'll look up at the sky and just talk out loud; conversations are good for keep him sane. He dreams about how hard Sam is trying to bust him out of this joint. He dreams of sleeping in a motel room with his brother typing away on his laptop. Nothing lulls him to sleep quite like that; he wants that so badly. Now, when he actually manages to get some rest, it's always with one eye open.

Cas is sitting beside him. They've taken up residence in an unoccupied cave in the eastern part of the never ending woods. His friend's trench coat is marred with mud, his face is cut and scraped, and he has deep bags beneath the eyes of his stubbly face. Dean uses a knife to shave himself to feel more human, but Cas refuses. He isn't sure why. All he knows is that they're running on fumes, Dean's knee is twisted and screwed to Hell, and Cas doesn't have enough juice to fix him.

While they were searching for a new place to stay, they ran across yet another group of vamps. Dean started slicing their heads off right away, but one knocked the blade out of his hand. While he scrambled to retrieve it by throwing punches left and right, some dick kicked him on to his back. Said idiot vamp then proceeded to stomp on Dean's left knee until Dean himself heard something pop or crack; he couldn't tell which.

It was unlike any pain he's ever felt in his life. He's broken plenty of bones, but nothing ever burned and stung this badly. Cas and Benny had to carry him away. He was too exhausted to fight them. Sam would have picked him up no matter what, gave him drugs that made him sleepy, and then drag his ass into the ER. He would so rather be in a hospital than here. At least in hospitals there are warm beds, blankets, food, water, and Sammy.

Dean's knee is too swollen for him to walk on. It's not like he really could, anyway. It's visible beneath his beyond soiled jeans. His bottom lip quivers, but he stops that instantly. He doesn't need any waterworks right now. For one, he isn't in the mood. Secondly, that will probably only make his constant headache much worse. He sighs and tries to stretch out his sore knee, but he can't even do that without hissing in agony.

"Are you okay?" Cas asks quietly.

They don't talk much down here, so it explains why his voice sounds like a cat shriveled up in there and died.

Dean nods. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Why? You've got nothing to be sorry for."

Cas shrugs and continues staring at the ground, fiddling around the dirt. "Sorry for not being able to heal you."

Dean understands. It's not like he can be angry. They're in a shitty enough situation, so it doesn't matter if Dean has a bum leg or not. Cas's mojo has depleted; it's virtually nonexistent. Because of this, one could practically say that he's human. Dean knows that he's gotten violently sick, has been hungry, and has even expressed actual emotions instead of being a statue. And, better yet, he acknowledges what said emotions mean. It's like a twisted miracle.

Two knocks on the solid rock at the front of the cave allows for Cas to utter a "come in." It could only be one person (or rather vamp) after all. Benny emerges and sits down in front of both Cas and Dean, a perplexed feature on his face. Dean hasn't known Benny for long, but he knows that he'll keep him safe as long as he somehow gets him out of here. He isn't sure how that's going to work just yet, but he's a Winchester; he'll find a way.

Dean leans back against the cave wall. "Well?"

"Nothing. I can't find a damn way out of this place."

_Shit._

"How's that knee of yours?" Benny questions.

Dean shrugs. "It's alright." He doesn't mention that he can barely move it an inch without nearly screaming in pain. Something has got to be broken. But, with no brace or cast or at least something, it's bound to give him hell. Dean's feels disgustingly feverish and so underwhelmed that he's not sure if he is even alive. It's a weird feeling. He doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. He just wants to get out of here and be with his brother.

"Can you move it?" Cas asks.

"Yeah..."

"Uh uh."

Clearly Cas doesn't believe him.

He wouldn't believe him either.

* * *

_Sam's been vomiting all night._

_Dean's given him ginger ale, saltines, and placed a green bucket next to his bed in case of an emergency. He's been this was since yesterday morning, and he's at the point where he'll do just about anything to make his baby brother feel better. Sam's fever is fluctuating between 99 and 103, which is making this whole stomach flu thing leaps and bounds worse. Dean's heart thumps in his chest, and he silently prays to Cas to take away his brother's pain._

_Sam is curled into as tight of a ball as the six foot four man can muster, his head resting peacefully on Dean's chest. A mixture of sweat, snot, and tears is pooling into his t-shirt, but Dean doesn't care. He's just happy the meds are working and that he's finally asleep. He's been fighting a losing battle for almost two days now, and it's nice to see that his efforts are starting to pay off. Sam is still burning up, but they're making a step in the right direction._

"_What are you doing?" _

_"Jesus fucking Christ!" Dean jumps and whisper-screams, his hold on his brother tighter. Cas, once again has poofed up out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of Dean. He can't keep doing this, especially when a sick Sam has just succumbed to exhaustion. He carefully lifts Sam's head up and gently slides out from underneath him, pulling the covers up to his chin and ruffling his hair lightly. Sam snuggles his face deeper into the pillow._

"_You shouldn't be here," Cas says._

_Dean's eyebrows furrow. "What the hell do you mean?"_

_Cas shrugs, his eyes darkening. "You should be down there. It's where you belong."_

_Dean gulps, panic rising in his throat. Is Cas a...demon? His eyes are jet black. How can Cas be a demon? He's a freaking angel, for crying out loud. Dean takes a tentative seat down on his own bed, staring directly at his friend, who is now staring out their motel room window into the snowy winter night. "Down where?" he asks. He has absolutely no clue what he's talking about. They've been right here in this dump for almost a week._

"_Purgatory. That's where you should be."_

_Cas lunges toward Dean and starts to choke him._

_His eyes are as dark as the night sky._

* * *

Dean wakes up gasping for air.

Cas's hand is placed firmly on his chest. "Breathe, Dean. Just breathe."

They've resorted to kind words and reassurance instead of medicine. Dean always carries his inhaler, but it's meant to be filled once a month. That's one way of how he kept time in the beginning. He figures he's been here for at least two. Cas and Benny are all too accustomed to dealing with his asthmatic episodes, which occur nearly daily, just like they did upstairs. He knows it was just a nightmare, but he hates it when they cause flare-ups.

"Can you walk?" Cas inquires.

Dean shakes his head. "N-No..."

"Okay, okay." Cas squats down on the ground next to him, wrapping his arm around the shaking man's shoulders.

Needless to say, the angel is kind of filling in for Sam.

"What's going on?" Benny asks. Dean guesses he was just sitting in the dark. Vamps don't sleep, afterall.

Dean knows Benny isn't human anymore, but he has a lot of qualities that make him feel like he is. He still knows what empathy and sympathy are and can still talk to him like he's a regular, everyday, run of the mill guy. It's so strange to Dean to think he's actually a vampire because, to tell the truth, he isn't sure he could ever hunt this guy after knowing him. Actually, there's no way he could lay a finger on Benny, who's been his greatest friend since they reunited with Cas.

"Is it your knee?"

Dean shrugs. No emotions, Winchester. No emotions.

"You need to talk to us, man."

"C'mon, Dean."

Dean puts his head in his hands. Tears swell up and over his flushed face. He can't do this anymore. He can't freaking stand it. His heart hurts. His head hurts. He knee fucking hurts. Even his hair and his teeth hurt. He wishes he were in some nasty motel room with a sick little brother blowing chunks all over him. He'd even take being ripped apart piece by piece by Alistair down in the pit. At least there all you felt was mostly physical pain.

He's never dealt well with mental and emotional pain.

"I'm...I'm just done. I c-can't even walk."

The sobs and heaving start, and he's left hunched over and vomiting up strings of phlegm. The action leaves his throat sore and his stomach, once again, feeling present within his body. Sam. Sam. He wants Sam. His brother knows how to make all of this go away. He wouldn't care at this point if he were in a damn wheelchair for a few weeks while his knee healed. If he could be back on earth right now and that happened, no one would hear a peep or complaint out of him.

"Shh...Shh..." Benny whispers, carefully rubbing the human's back.

"Dean, it'll be okay. You have us," he hears Cas say quietly.

"Yes, sir. We sure as hell won't let anything happen to you."

For the first time in a long while, Dean believes them.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope this was kind of what you were looking for PurpleRings! Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	26. LailySpenstar

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the amazingly wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you guys so much for your reviews, requests, and for reading! I really do appreciate it more than you guys know! =)

I hope everyone is having a wonderful day!

LailySpenstar requested for me to write an asthma fic with Sam taking care of his big brother. Since I wrote teen!Chesters way back in the story where Dean struggled with asthma, I am going to set this once the show starts. Season one is probably my favorite season overall (though I love all of them, except season seven), so I'm going to make it to where Sam sort of forgets or doesn't think about how bad Dean's asthma is until it's too late.

Time for another appearance of Papa Winchester and some sick Sam!

If anyone wants to request a Stanford era fic, that would be lovely to write! Plot is up to you!

* * *

LailySpenstar

* * *

_January 8, 2006_

"Dean," Sam coaxes, nudging his brother's shoulder. They've finally arrived at their motel for the night. His older brother fell asleep with his head lulled on to the window of the Impala long ago. The boys just finished a hunt, both are dirty and exhausted, and they are in desperate need of food and sleep. Sam knows his first order of business, however, is to stitch up the deep gash beneath his brother's left eye, which is now becoming puffy and a bit swollen.

Not quite a black eye, but Sam guesses he'll see in the morning.

The older Winchester pops open his eyes, his hands immediately flying up to his face. His head is pounding, and the area where the knife sliced him is stinging terribly. He feels Sam tug on his coat and motions for him to get their bags. Dean organizes their disheveled clothes back into their bags while Sam checks in. It's customary that the one whose face is least screwed up does this process; Sam only has a busted lip and a barely swollen nose, so he gets the honors.

Surprisingly, this place isn't a dump for being so cheap. It's way nicer than most places they stay, actually. The walls are a deep grey as opposed to some 1970s puke green or tie-dye orange and purple. The comforters on both beds are maroon, and the carpet is incredibly soft. Maybe they'll hole up here for a bit. Right now, both brothers are so tired that they can't even look ahead to tomorrow. Sam prays that Dean won't wake him up at the ass crack of dawn. He's not feeling the greatest right now, anyway.

Before Sam takes his shower, he removes the makeshift bandage from beneath Dean's eye. He doesn't squirm or protest as he individually stitches the wound closed. Getting stitches on one's face, especially close to the eye, can be a bit intimidating. Sam would probably freak out a bit over that one. But Dean's half-asleep even while he's sitting up. Once he finishes, he puts antibacterial cream over the gash and covers it with a thicker bandage.

Dean mumbles a quick "thank you," and Sam hops in the shower. The hot water is welcoming, especially after fighting spirits out in the freezing winter snow all night. Sam tries not to panic when he notices how tight and achy his muscles are and how his nose is starting to drip and then fill up with congestion. Shit. It's just like him to get sick right after Christmas and a few weeks before Dean's birthday. It typically happens every year.

Sam pushes it off and hopes out of the shower, toweling his hair dry and putting on his warmest sweats and a thermal. Dean begins to rummage through his stuff for his shower; Sam notices there's a dose of liquid NyQuil in a cup, a box of tissues, and a bottle of blue Gatorade on the nightstand next to his bed. Sam smiles thoughtfully as he flops down on the bed, immediately covering his sore body with the warm comforter. He swallows the medicine and blows his nose.

The younger Winchester is almost asleep when a sharp cough from behind the bathroom door erupts through the room. His eyes creak open, and he starts to sit up in bed when the light from the restroom shines on his face. Dean emerges with a towel wrapped around his waists, fumbling and fiddling for something in his bag. "'s wrong, Dean?" he asks, sniffling and making his move to get out of bed. He watches his brother pull out his inhaler and take a few deep huffs. Sam has his hand on his back in an instant; Dean's shaking and soaking wet beneath his palm.

"Just a tight chest, Sam," Dean reassures, grinning slightly to demonstrate that he's okay. His chest is extremely tender to the touch, which is never a good sign, and he feels like his throat is still closing up. "Go lay back down. You need your rest." Sam obliges and is snoring before he hits the pillow. Dean chuckles to himself and proceeds to get dressed. He only puts on a pair of boxers and green plaid pajama pants. He's kind of hot right now anyway.

Sam is sleeping on his back. Dean already knows his brother is getting ready to get his winter cold out of the way, so he's glad this motel is where they're staying. It's clean, actually smells nice, and isn't damp and freezing, which are their normal conditions for this time of year. The older Winchester lies down on top of his covers and stares at the ceiling, his chest spasming too frequently to sleep on his stomach or side.

He falls asleep to the sounds of his sick brother snoring away.

* * *

_The next morning_

Sam's aching and congested when he wakes up. His immediately reaches for the tissues Dean left him last night, blowing his stuffed up nose. He collapses back into bed, wrapping the too thin comforter around himself, shivering violently beneath. Who the hell turned off the heat? It's the beginning of freaking January, for Christ's sake. Sam covers up his face and tries to snuggle back down into the surprisingly fluffy motel room pillows.

Dean, freshly shaven, comes out of the bathroom dressed in jeans and an old Henley that seen better days to find his brother fighting a losing battle. He knows they'll be here for a few days until Sam is up and running again, and that's okay. Anything to make his little brother feel better. Dean pads over to Sam and carefully reaches under the blankets to gage his temperature. Sam doesn't protest; he actually moves in toward the warmth of his hand.

Sam's forehead isn't all that hot; he's grateful it's just a cold as opposed to the flu or pneumonia or something crazy. They've been running all over the country to find their father, and he's shocked, besides the migraines, that his brother hasn't been sick any other time that they've been together within the last two months. Sam's a worrywart and tends to panic himself until he's vomiting or has a fever. Dean grabs more NyQuil.

He moves the comforter down and hoists Sam into a semi-sitting position. "Time for meds."

Sam gives him a puppy dog look and sinks back down into bed, covering himself once again.

"C'mon, Sammy. Take them for me."

Often times, with Sam being the youngest, he feels as though he's still talking to that six year old kid who thinks he's always right and wants to do what he wants when he wants it. Sam just breathes off that air of their childhood that Dean can't ever escape. Ever since he was four, this giant _kid_ has been his constant. He's cheered him up in ways he'll probably never understand. But, when duty calls, Dean will always be there, whether he's ten or nearly twenty-seven.

Sam swallows the red liquid and immediately rolls back over.

"Nice talkin' to you too, Sammy."

* * *

_A few hours later_

There's an elephant sitting on Dean's chest.

He's been using his inhaler too much today, which can only mean one thing.

Dean wipes the sweat forming on his brow, coughing slightly into his cupped fist to try to alleviate the excruciating pain. He's sitting at the kitchen table, massaging his upper body with his fingertips. No matter how little he moves, he can't seem to catch his breath. He takes another huff of his inhaler and breathes heavily, lowering his head and pray silently for some relief. Nothing is working, and Dean would hate to wake Sam up for this.

Sam's fever is still present, and his congestion is worse if anything. He needs to rest.

And he shouldn't be worrying about his brother when he's sick.

Dean tries to focus on the laptop in front of him, but his vision is swimming. His mind is too dizzy to comprehend words; he isn't sure what else he's supposed to do other than what he's already doing. Sam usually knows how to make him feel better, even though he can't prevent the attacks. He begins to wheeze, and his chest releases a whistling sound. Shit. His teeth chatter together, even though he's not cold.

The older Winchester moves over to his bed and places his head between his knees. This is the typical aid when he's going to pass out, which is somewhat how he feels, but Sam taught him it could also help his breathing regulate. After a few minutes, his pulse isn't throbbing as much, and air can finally force itself into his sore, deprived lungs. Dean breathes heavily as if he's just ran a marathon, but it's better than not being able to breathe period.

"You okay?"

Dean jumps when his hears the quiet, strained voice of his brother. Sam is glancing at him from beneath the covers, glazed eyes looking him over. He still can't develop words, much less speak to anyone. He just gives a shaky thumbs up and coughs harshly into his hands. He wipes his face with his shirtsleeve, careful of the cut below his eye, including the bit of snot trickling from his nose. He doesn't want to freak his brother out anymore than he may already be.

"Dude, are you sure?"

Dean nods. "Y-Yeah..."

He lies down flat on his back, trying to ignore the flailing of his lungs as his brother's breathing evens out.

* * *

_That night_

John Winchester enters room twelve of the Blue Bird Motel to find his two sleeping boys.

There's a sea of tissues surrounding his youngest, who is snoring his head off into the late night. Sam must be feeling a bit run down, which is why he's guessing he didn't see either one of them at the hunt he's sure they would have been at. Sam is sprawled out beneath two comforters, his and Dean's, actually looking peaceful and content. Dean must have drugged him up pretty nicely. John places his head on his son's forehead and sighs.

Dean is sleeping on his back, something that John very rarely sees. Sam's been known to fall asleep like that, yes, but never Dean. He's a stomach sleeper and has been since he was one year old. He's still wearing his day clothes and is sporting a longer bandage beneath his eye, which is a bit swollen and red around the edges. It seems as though both of his boys may be a little on the shaky side, especially if his oldest fell asleep like _that_.

John gently shakes Dean's socked foot, causing the young man to jump up and lunge for the knife beneath his pillow.

"Woah, easy tiger," John says, smiling at his son.

Dean breathes heavily. "Dad? W-What are you doing here?"

"I was just checkin' on you boys. I figured we would have ran into each other earlier, but..." he trails off to motion to an incapacitated Sam.

The blond shakes his head. "I'm really sorry about that, sir." He wants to add that they've been searching all over the place for him and that he didn't know he would just _run into_ him in some random town with no agenda. He knows how angry his dad gets when either of them is sick; it's no secret. Sam broke his ankle while he had the stomach flu, and Dad made him hunt. Dean's broken his wrist from being exhausted and feverish for days and days on end.

He chooses to apologize, though, so they don't get into a one-sided argument.

"It's alright, son. Do you mind if I crash in here tonight?"

Dean motions to his bed. "I can steal the blanket back from Sam if you want."

John waves his hand. "Don't worry about it, son. Get some rest. You're looking pretty ragid."

When Dean settles down next to Sam in bed, his brother immediately cuddles his face into his chest, as if he unconsciously knows he's there to keep him safe. He continues snoring like a chainsaw. Dean rubs at his still aching chest, unable to fall asleep. How can Dad just show up unannounced like this? Doesn't he know how hard they've been looking for him? That he dragged Sam out of college to search for him all over the country?

Once again, Dean's left alone with only two snorers to keep him company.

* * *

_January 10, 2006_

Sam awakens glued to his big brother's chest. He must have sweated a lot in the middle of the night because his face is dried and sticky to the surface of Dean's Henley. He places a hand on his brother's chest to push himself up, waking Dean up in the process. The older Winchester snorts awake, sleepily glaring at Sam. "'s goin' on? You 'lright?" He begins to wipe the sleep out of his eyes and then goes back to rubbing his chest with his fingers.

"Do you see what I see, or is this just a fever dream?" Sam questions, pointing to John Winchester, who has just returned from a bathroom trip. The younger man sneezes and coughs; Dean pats him on the back reassuringly. After that's all said and done, Sam's eyes widen. "Dad?" His father stares at him and smiles. Neither of them makes a move to hug each other or anything like that. His father's words will probably haunt him for the rest of his life.

_Don't ever come back._

He wonders if his father knows about Jess or what happened to her. He wonders if he knows how much hell he and Dean have raised to find him. He wonders if he even gives a shit. Sam shivers slightly, scratching his nose with his index finger. He promptly grabs more tissues and blows. He feels his brother get up.

What happens next is entirely unexpected.

Dean drops to the floor on his hands and knees, gripping at his chest with one hand and his throat with the other. His eyes are nearly bulging out of his skull, blood vessels being blown left and right. Sam hops up and instantly grabs his inhaler, which is conveniently placed on the nightstand. His father sits down on the floor behind his son, holding him up while he struggles to breathe. Sam puffs the inhaler and holds it for him, patting his knees comfortingly.

The older Winchester is shaking and soaked with sweat by the time the medication takes affect. He collapses into his father's waiting arms. John can feel his son quivering viciously, and his heart pangs into his chest. Dean's breathing eventually evens out, and Sam and John give each other awkward glances. Sam takes Dean and hoists him up and puts him back into bed. He'll deal with changing his clothes and stuff later.

All he can do is just look at the father who's disappointed him and let him down.

Dean would never do that to him.

* * *

_Later on_

Dean's chest is still on fire by the time he regains consciousness hours later.

Sam recognizes the pain and rubs his shoulders, trying his best through his own cold to maintain himself. He's spent the past few hours checking his own temperature and giving himself his own dose of medicine. It was super weird to not have Dean automatically do it for him. He hasn't had to do anything on his own since Stanford. And, while it was only a couple months ago, it feels like an eternity to Sam, who is always used to having his brother around.

Dean's asthma is just as unpredictable as the way Dad drifts in and out of their lives.

John Winchester left a few minutes after Dean's asthma attack, telling Sam he'll keep in touch.

Only Sam doesn't want to keep in touch. Not even in the slightest. It's just another painful representation of his superb parenting skills. They've been tearing up the country to find him, help him, or save him. Neither of them had heard anything from him, not even when Sam called to tell his dad that Dean was dying from his electrocuted heart. It's about time Sam realizes that his father simply doesn't care about his children. Never has and never will.

It's not that it matters, though. Sam will always have Dean. Dean will always have Sam.

"How're you feelin', Sammy?"

Sam shrugs. "I'm alright. The real question is how are you? That was a pretty bad one, man."

Dean returns the shrug. "Where's Dad?" he inquires, stretching out his trembling muscles.

"He left."

Dean gulps.

It's the story of their lives.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, LailySpenstar! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	27. cares113

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderfully amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you guys very much for the requests, reviews, and for reading! =)

cares113 requested: "Can you make a story with how Dean sprained his ankle on a hunt trying to save Sam? After the hunt, Dean keeps walking on it, making the sprain worse. He tries to hide it from Sam. It's not until Dean's can't walk anymore that Sam notices it. I want it to happen in season one or two." How very Dean-like of him! Haha. I really like this request because it is so painfully Dean, much like how I broke his arm in an earlier chapter, and he didn't want to tell anyone about it since Sam was hurt too. He always waits until things get to their worst!

This is set in season two.

* * *

cares113

* * *

_March 2, 2007_

Nothing ever really goes Dean's way, he decides. From being forced into not having a childhood, to constantly taking care of his stubborn baby brother, to being chased by some psycho spirit in the woods, it's all the same to him. He tends to repeatedly get the short end of the stick, but what else can a Winchester expect? His family is friggin' cursed. His mom died on burning on the ceiling twenty-three years ago, and his dad sacrificed himself to save Dean.

What a wonderful life.

Dean glances over his shoulder whilst running, double-checking to make sure his brother is behind him. Sam is nowhere in sight, and Dean comes to a crashing halt as he trips over a massive tree trunk in the middle of the woods. He hears a distinct "pop" in his right foot, and he immediately coils in pain. There's no time to fix it now, though. He has to find Sam. He pushes himself up on shaky legs and doesn't bother taking a tentative step on his sore foot.

He sprints back to around where they began their journey. Sam is face down in the mud, unconscious and bleeding. Dean hoists him up and carries him bridal style out of there, ignoring the persistent throbbing in his ankle. His limp grows more and more pronounce with each stride. By the time he makes it to the Impala, he's biting his lower lip so hard it bleeds. He lays Sam down in the backseat, covers him with their old quilt in the trunk, and runs back out to the cemetery in the pouring rain to salt and burn the spirit.

Dean wipes the rain from his eyes and limps back to the car.

* * *

_An hour later_

Sam's still out like a light, but the gashes from the fingernails of the spirit on his cheek are clean and stitched shut. He's fast asleep on their single motel bed, thanks to the whole damn place being filled for some cinnamon festival. Dean figures they make have to check that out tomorrow...but he's still pissed they took all the rooms with two beds. Sam needs to be woken up every hour to check for a concussion and to make sure the dimwit is breathing.

Dean guesses it's a good thing, in some way.

The older Winchester breathes heavily as he walks on his injured ankle from the bathroom to their shared bed. He figures it's time to go to bed, even though it's only ten at night. With waking up every hour, it'll be wise to turn in early. Dean glances down at his foot, grimacing at the purple bruise-like bump on his ankle from where he twisted it. It's swollen and tender to the touch; he decides to wrap it and then cover it with socks in case Sam sees it.

He winces as he moves his foot and turns off their lamp.

* * *

_Another hour later_

"Sammy."

"Hmmmm?..."

"What's your name?"

"...Just said it."

"Humor me."

"Sammy...Sam..."

"The date?"

"Never know the date..."

"Fair enough. G'night, dude."

* * *

_The next morning_

Dean's ankle pounds viciously with each step he takes. It was throbbing so much last night that he wound up sitting in the bathroom every fifty-five minutes he wasn't waking up Sam icing his foot. The swelling is still evident, but it's a bit better than it was in the wee hours of the morning. Dean's managed to get dressed with a pinched expression on his pale face, and he even somehow got his boots on, his right one tied dangerously loose and barely hanging on by a thread.

"You ready to go?" Sam asks, actually bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning. His head feels much better after a full night's rest (well, except for Dean's incessant questioning), and he's actually raring to get out on the road. He watches as his older brother tentatively walks over to his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a wince. "Are you okay?" He's really hoping he isn't hiding an injury of some sort... That would be so much like Dean that it's nauseating.

Dean nods and follows his brother out the door, sliding into the driver's seat of the Impala. It just has to be his driving foot that is entirely out of commission; it's so weak that he can barely press down on the gas peddle without nearly screaming in pain. He tries to push past the vomit creeping up the back of his throat; it's his pain responders in his body trying to tell him to sit this one out, even if it is just going to for a drive.

He isn't exactly in the mood for loud music, but Sam turns on this boring shit and turns cranks it nearly as loud as it can go. Dean throws on a pair of sunglasses to hide his drooping eyes from exhaustion and to begin eliminating the agony lines written on his face. He scrubs his hand down the sides of his face and sighs, exhaling loudly. His ankle twinges in discomfort and nearly makes him yank the car over to the other side of the road.

Maybe he should tell Sam.

* * *

_That evening_

He never does get around to telling his brother, who has been so pumped full of weird, crazy energy that Dean isn't sure how he's supposed to handle it. He's found them a hunt in, you guessed it, another graveyard, and he can't help but wonder why. Sam, however, obviously doesn't know his brother isn't up for walking or talking or pretty much anything right now. It's hard to shoot down his own family when a member, for once, is in a good mood.

"You want another Coke?" Sam questions, jumping up from the booth at the burger joint they're at.

Dean shakes his head. "Nah. No thanks."

While Sam's at the soda fountain, Dean makes his getaway to the bathroom, not bothering to hide his limp because his brother isn't anywhere near him right now. When he makes it to the restroom, he awkwardly stands on one foot, elevating his hurt one slightly above the ground to remove the pressure from it. He washes his face with cold water, relishing how good it feels. He wants to get to a motel, ice his foot, and call it a night.

Unfortunately for him, that will never happen.

He walks as properly and as Dean-like as he can, but he feels like everyone in the diner is staring at him alone. There are fatsos and whores and cute little babies all over the damn place, but yet they ogle at the injured dude? Real classy, folks. The older Winchester rolls his eyes and heads back over to his brother, who is just so happening to look at him funny too. Great. The last thing he needs or wants is Bitch Face Number Fourteen glaring directly in his direction.

"What's up with you?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

Dean shrugs and then shakes his head, forgetting that there's nothing wrong for a split second. "Nothin', man. Let's go." He tries to ignore the fact that Sam has rolled his eyes and refilled his soda anyway, apparently using it as a prop to aid the conversation further. "Can we just go please?" he inquires, motioning out toward his baby. He really needs to get off his foot and sit down a bit more. Even though he's driving it will still help.

When Dean gets outside and is about ready to open the driver side door, Sam pushes him out of the way lightly and gestures at his usual side of the car. "I'll drive for a bit, man," he says. Dean obliges without protest; he sort of forgets he should protest. He is secretly so grateful for a break that he's singing happily on the inside. He stretches out his right leg and is marginally comfortable when his baby glides down the road, leaving behind another town in the dust.

* * *

_A few hours later_

"C'mon, Dean! We gotta move!"

Dean chokes back the vomit and wipes away the tears swelling in the corners of his eyes. He can't keep going. Neither of them meant to piss off that spirit (well, they kind of did...), and, like he said before, things never really work out for him. So when they do manage to piss Old Man Jenkins off, they have to run and then salt and burn once they dodge him somewhere hopefully close by. Sam tugs at his coat sleeve and tries to drag him along.

He can't hide the limping anymore. He collapses on to the ground behind a bunch of trees, breathing heavily and nearly hyperventilating. The pain ripping through his ankle is enough to make him barf out the burger he scarfed down earlier, leaving bits and pieces dangling from his mouth. Sam drops on his knees too, immediately reassuring his brother and rubbing his back as he vomits into the melting snow and muddy mess below.

"Dude, what the hell?"

The older Winchester can't manage anything more than a shrug.

"Okay, you just hold on a minute. I gotta take care of this." Before Sam sprints back, he shrugs off his coat and wraps it around a shivering Dean's shoulders, who is looking more and more like a wreck with each passing second. The blond man chews on his bottom lip. He wants Sam to hurry and burn this damn thing and then rush him to the ER. He knows something is disastrously and extremely wrong for him to even want to go there.

Dean could cry tears of joy once his brother returns.

"Let me take a look at your foot, man."

Once Dean gets one glance at his ankle, he pukes again.

It's a disgusting mash up of red, purple, and blue. It's so swollen that he couldn't get his boot back on even if he tried. He can't make out what Sam says because he's exhausted and in pain and needs drugs, but he's sure it's something snarky and concerned all in the same note. He feels Sam pull his wool sock back on, hoist him up, wrap his arm around his shoulder, and carry his discarded boot in the other hand.

By the time they make it to the Impala, Dean could kiss the ground because he's so thrilled.

* * *

_At the hospital_

Dean glances down at the bright pink cast on his lower right leg in horror.

"What do you mean by 'broken,' Sammy?"

Sam shrugs and takes seat next to his brother's hospital bed. "In two places. That's what you get for walking, driving, and running on a sprain."

"But why is my cast pink?!"

The younger Winchester only smiles. "Let's just call it revenge, you jerk."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, cares113! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	28. Taraneh (III)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did...

* * *

Thank you very much for your lovely reviews, requests, and for reading!

On a very unrelated note, I just have to ask you guys something. I hope it doesn't sound too crazy. So, has anyone ever realized that Jensen and Jared are both the middle children of their families? Both of them have an older brother. Jensen has Josh, and Jared has Jeff. They both also have younger sisters. Jensen has Mackenzie, and Jared has Megan. Both of their families have kids with the initials J.J.M.! It's crazy!

Also, Dean and Sam's birthdays are _about_ four years and four months apart (January 24 and May 2). Jensen and Jared's birthdays are also _about_ four years and four months apart (March 1 and July 19). In both instances, Jensen/Dean is born first (obviously, since he's older, but I mean that their birthday months come before both Jared/Sam). I'm just wondering if anyone has ever noticed these little coincidences, or if I'm nuts. Haha.

And, as always, then there's Misha...

Sorry, I just had to throw that in there because Misha is such a lovable goofball. Speaking of Misha, did anyone see the "that's a carry on my wayward son" bit he posted on Twitter?

Rant over. Sorry about that, guys.

Taraneh requested: "How about Dean having bad food poisoning and end up in a hospital and having Charlie and Sam by his side? It would be great if this could happen in season ten, but feel free to put it in another season if you like!" I really wish the writers of the show would do something like this! We all know how much Dean eats and that the constant diner food has to be at least questionable. This would be great to see in an actual episode!

This is set just after the Deanmon has been cured.

* * *

Taraneh (III)

* * *

_October 30, 2014_

"What are you doing?" Sam questions, glancing over his pale brother, whose eyes are drooping closed at the bunker's kitchen table. Dean has his head propped up by his left hand and is half asleep, scrolling through local haunting reports on their laptop aimlessly. When he looks up at Sam, he can tell he's exhausted, weak, and really needs some rest. He was only cured two days ago, and he clearly hasn't been coping very well with this whole situation.

Dean shrugs. "Lookin' for a hunt," he slurs. He's so tired that he has barely been able to keep his eyes open since two days ago when he was cured from being a karaoking, douchebag demon. He hasn't had enough energy to do anything besides shower and change into pajamas to get comfortable for once and collapse into the chair at this table. He winces when Sam pats him on the shoulder as he sits down across from him, casually pushing a paper bag in front of him.

"You need to eat, dude," is all he says.

The older Winchester seems skeptical at first, but then he shrugs again and opens the bag. Inside is a cheeseburger with everything on it and a large fry, something Sam definitely frowns upon him eating. He must be at least grateful to have him human again and is letting him pig out on some "disgusting" and "unhealthy" food. Dean yawns, unwrapping his cheeseburger and taking a bite, relishing the immediate burst of beautiful flavors in his mouth.

"Mmm...Oh yeah! Hmmm..."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Uh, should I give you two a minute?"

Dean just throws a French fry in his face, hitting him straight on the nose.

* * *

"So he was a demon?"

The younger Winchester nods, picking at his salad with his left hand. His right shoulder is on fire from its still recent dislocation. He's broken a few bones before and obviously has dislocated his shoulder multiple times, but this one just _hurts_. The entire time he was curing Dean, he was trying not to throw up from the sudden waves of agony shredding through his scapula. Needless to say, he is thrilled to be able to move on from this injury soon.

"Well, where is he now?" Charlie questions, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Sleeping finally." Sam has no idea how long Dean stayed awake as a demon or if he even slept. He knows he didn't sleep when he had no soul and that Cas never really slept unless his vessel used to need it. Crowley doesn't sleep, but he's the King of Hell, so he figures as much. He's never spent that much time with demons (other than exercising or killing them) to truly know. Dean passed out a few hours ago sprawled out underneath his comforter, snoring loudly.

Charlie smiles briefly and then goes back to being more serious. "So, is this like permanent, or could he go all Voldemort again?"

Sam shakes his head and sits back further in his chair. It's an inquiry that he certainly doesn't want to really acknowledge. "I dunno," is where he leaves it. Charlie seems to understand the answer. "I better go check on him." As he gets up from the couch, he truly feels bad. He isn't in the mood for company tonight; he's exhausted, in pain, and his brother, who was a demon for months, is now back to being human. He just doesn't want to tell Charlie that.

The tall brunette pads down to his brother's room, his shoulder throbbing with each step. He creaks open the door, peaking inside. The room is pitch black, and Sam fumbles with finding the bedside lamp. He doesn't really care if Dean gets angry at him for checking to see if he's still human and breathing. When he flips on the light, his brother isn't in his bed. Sam swallows the bile rising in his throat, gulps, and feels his left hand begin to tremble.

Dean's a demon again.

Sam scrubs a nervous hand down the side of his stubbly face.

And then he sees the bathroom light is on.

And hears the sound of retching.

Without a second of hesitation, he sprints into the nearby bathroom, breathing out a sigh of relief when he sees an obviously still human Dean kneeling before the throne. Actually, it's more like he's collapsed around it. He's panting and heaving and quivering all over the place. There's a trail of blood flowing steadily into his right eye where he must have dinged it somewhere. Sam drops to his knees and begins to rub his brother's back.

"It's okay, dude. Let it out," he coaxes.

"'m not five..."

Sam rolls his eyes, but continues massaging his tense back. He's shaking beneath his fingertips and seems to be having a hard time stopping his vomiting episodes. Sam pulls him back from the toilet and basically into his lap with one arm, thinking Dean's done. Little does he know, though, that he's far from it. Dean throws up all over himself and Sam's one working arm, with just a tad bit to spare on his jeans. The younger Winchester gags himself.

"Calm down, Dean. It's okay," Sam says. He gently pushes his brother back toward the toilet and gets off the cold, hard ground to rinse off his left arm. He really needs someone to unhook the strap of his sling so he can get his plaid shirt off of him. The brunette just sticks his whole forearm under the running water, forgoing anything else. Dean is still throwing up, but it's only light yellow bile. He spits violently into the toilet bowl.

Dean shakily wipes his mouth with his shirtsleeve. His stomach is tossing and turning, and it's clenching and unclenching itself. He's been feeling really off since he ate that cheeseburger earlier. He didn't eat as a demon, but he sure as hell drank a shit ton. More bile escapes his mouth, and he coughs it into the toilet, the strings and strands hanging from his chin. He gratefully accepts the washcloth Sam hands him.

He lays his head down on the cool toilet seat, even though he knows how nasty that is; he can't keep his head up anymore. Sam leaves, and Dean coughs harshly, swallowing whatever is threatening to leave him this time. His stomach is doing somersaults, and he wishes desperately for sleep. His brother returns with new clothes in his hands. Dean raises his eyebrows when he sees two t-shirts instead of only one.

"You puked on me too," Sam says softly.

Dean just nods. "Sorry..."

"Don't worry about it, man. You can't help it. Can you do me a favor?"

"Involve moving?"

Sam shakes his head. "Can you unclip this thing for me?"

He kneels down with his back facing his brother and feels the sling become extremely loose. The pain instantly swallows Sam whole, and he clenches his teeth together. Dean must notice, through his own discomfort even, and removes the sling from Sam entirely. He holds on to his elbow with his left hand, making sure it doesn't drop anymore than it already has. Dean pulls himself up, coughs up vomit twice into the sink, and washes off the sling. He carefully helps Sam out of his shirt and pulls on a new one, knowing how terrible this is for his brother too.

Once Sam is taken care of, Dean can't hold it back any longer. He holds on to the sink so tightly his knuckles go from red to white. He tastes iron in his mouth and looks down on to the marble. Blood. He's puking up blood. Sam seems to notice quickly, and he, even though he's clearly in agony too, changes his brother into a plain blue t-shirt and pushes him out the door and down the hall toward the front door of the bunker. They need a hospital. Now.

Charlie is relaxing on the leather couch watching _Game of Thrones_ when Sam emerges from the depths of the bunker with a painfully obviously sick Dean dragged beside him. She immediately jumps up and heads over to wrap the blond's arm around her shoulder. "What's wrong with him?" she questions. She's seen Sam sick once. It was during the trials, and the symptoms were that of a kickass flu. By kickass, she means that it sucks ass.

"Not sure, but it's bad whatever it is."

They load Dean into the Impala, laying him down gently in the backseat. When Sam reaches for the steering wheel, Charlie knocks him out of the way. They don't exchange words; Sam just goes to sit in the backseat with his brother, running his free hand through his sweaty hair. Dean gags into his jeans, but never actually puke during the drive there. When they get out, Sam's so exhausted his legs are trembling, and his shoulder is killing him.

When they whisk Dean away, a nurse volunteers to check Sam's shoulder for additional strain.

* * *

_A few hours later_

"Family of Dean O'Malley?"

Sam and Charlie both stand up, equally as nervous as the other. Even though it's four in the morning, and Charlie has yet to sleep, and Sam has torn another muscle in his shoulder, they both really need to know what in the hell is wrong with Dean. Charlie figures it may be from his recently being cured from being a demon; Sam figures it's a form of shitty stomach flu from the stress of the Mark and being human again and just his life in general.

"How is he?" Sam asks, anxiety dripping off his every word.

"He's severely dehydrated, but he'll be okay."

"Do you know what caused this?" Charlie asks.

The doctor shrugs as if this situation were nonchalant. "A bad burger."

Sam wonders what exactly doctors are used for if this is all they get.

"You can see him if you'd like," he says, pointing toward the private room he's being kept in. Sam just pushes past him without so much as a "thanks" with Charlie following close behind. Dean's fast asleep, curled up on his side with a pink basin gripped tightly in his right hand. He's hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor, probably just precautionary on that one. Sam doesn't figure his apparent food poisoning could ever be this bad.

Charlie pulls out a chair for Sam and sits down next to him. "Do you think he'll be alright?"

Sam shrugs. "I just hope he wakes up still human."

* * *

_10:00 a.m._

By the time Dean awakens, Sam has lost his battle with sleep. A nurse brought in a few painkillers, a cot, and let the younger Winchester pass out beneath a baby blue hospital blanket. Charlie watches as the older of the two sleepily rubs his eyes and yawns loudly, glancing down curiously at the IV. He begins to tug on it, but then Charlie stops him with her hand. Dean rolls on to his back, rubbing his sore middle section instead.

"What happened to me?" His voice is weak and scratchy.

Charlie guesses that is what hours of continuous vomiting will do to a guy.

"Apparently that burger you ate yesterday really didn't like you."

Dean points to Sam with a trembling hand. "What about him?"

"The nurse said he pulled another muscle."

Dean gulps and runs his hand through his hair, his heart pounding a bit harder. _Great. The stupid kid got hurt worse by taking care of me._ Go figure. He already knows he's probably the one who messed up Sam's shoulder in the first place while he was a demon. Now that he's human, he doesn't want to think about every hurting his baby brother again. He wants to take all of this back to where he never got injured in the first place.

Why does he have to hurt everyone he loves?

* * *

_November 3, 2014_

The day after the thirty-first anniversary of his mother's death, Dean is lying on Charlie's pillowed lap on the couch watching _Game of Thrones_. Sam is sitting at the other end of the couch with his brother's feet propped up on his lap. While he stopped vomiting all together a few days ago at the hospital, he's still not feeling quite up to par and has been struggling with his food intake. Sam has been feeding him salads and other healthy shit.

Dean no longer looks forward to eating, to say the least.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" Charlie asks quietly, playing with his hair after the episode ends. She knows he isn't feeling the greatest, and she's been doing anything she can to help out both brothers, especially since Sam is a little on the floppy side with his shoulder being screwed to hell and all. She's known both of them for years, knows what yesterday was to them, and knows how hard they both struggle just to keep going day in and day out.

The blond glances toward his brother, who smiles back at him, patting his bare ankle. Charlie continues to twist his hair gently in her fingers. Even though yesterday marked the official worst day of his life and the day every single thing he thought he knew changed, it's nice to know that there are still two people that care about him out there. He wishes he could freeze this (for once) peaceful moment in his life and keep it like this forever.

"Never better."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Taraneh! Thank you all so much for your reviews, requests, and for reading! =)


	29. Taraneh (IV)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you all so much for your reviews, requests, follow, favorites, and for simply reading! =)

If you guys haven't watched videos from Vegan Con, you really need to!

To the ones who actually read this up here, what do you guys think about me writing a new story? It won't be one with one-shots, and it won't be one where I take requests. I have this idea where somehow Dean is sent back to relive his childhood. I'm not sure if I would have it to where he could interact with his family or not, but I want it to be an out of body experience instead of where he's de-aged to a five year old and such. He just watches from the outside.

I was also thinking of a post 10x14 fic where Dean's behavior starts to get more and more erratic and odd. He stops eating, sleeping, and won't talk to anyone, which mostly means Sam and Cas. He loses a lot of weight and isn't sure how he's supposed to handle himself anymore. Then, he is sent back in time to some time in their teen years to relive an important moment. I'm not too sure about this one or if that will actually be what happens, but who knows? Haha.

Does either of these sound like a decent idea at all?

Taraneh requested: "Imagine Dean catches a cold, but he's going with his 'I'm fine' bravado. But after a hunt, when they go to the Roadhouse, the flu hits him hard and not only Sam, but Ellen, Jo, and even Ash want to take care of him!" Poor Dean. He constantly does this to himself. I actually really do love his character for little things like this; he's so unwilling to be taken care of because he's the provider, and he's used to hiding things to benefit others.

This is set in season two.

* * *

Taraneh (IV)

* * *

_September 28, 2006_

It's midnight when Sam finally gets entirely sick of Dean's sniffling. He's sneezed numerous times and has gone through an entire box of tissues, but he keeps claiming that he's "fine." He really ought to show his brother the definition of that word. Even if it's only a cold, it's still irritating. He's mentioned that they should pull over for the night and drown him in NyQuil, but Dean refuses every time. Honestly, if he just sat out for a day or so, he would probably be on the mend rather quickly. But, Sam knows Dean and knows that's impossible.

He's been dealing with an overly congested brother since Tuesday evening. Dean's nose has been Rudolph red during this time, and he's also developing a bit of a harsh cough. It's not wet or anything, he's just at the point where he can't stop it. If the runny nose and cough weren't bad enough, he's seemed to develop a permanent headache because Sam has never seen him squint at midnight before. With tonight, it's just going to be pushed overboard into something else.

Dean pulls his baby into the cemetery and parks her. It's a rainy, muddy mess outside, but someone has to do all of the dirty work. At least the ground will be soft when he digs up the bodies. Tonight, they are salting and burning a forty-year old couple who have been terrorizing an elementary school. He hopes it goes fast because he's beyond ready for bed. He's been congested since two nights ago and hasn't bothered to hide it from Sam. As long as he keep protesting that he's okay, his brother will leave him alone to do what he always does.

"You can't go out there in that, Dean," Sam says, grabbing his coat sleeve before he exits the Impala.

"Why not?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're getting sick. Let me do it. It's pouring outside."

"Thanks, Al Roker, but I'll be fine." With that, Dean gets up and leaves. Sam annoyingly tosses his hood over his head, huffing in the process. He's just going to get worse and end up a shivering, snotty mess for him to take care of for days on end with no break. And, then, he would probably get sick himself. The main difference between the Winchester brothers is that Sam knows when to stop and admit he's pushing himself too far; Dean has no off button.

Dean is sliding around in the mud, and he's caked in the stuff. His dark blond hair has turned dark brown between the mixture of the mud and the rain; it's completely flat against his forehead. Even though it's barely fall outside, he can see his breath. His arms shake while he digs up the grave. It's so wet outside that he can't tell if his nose is dripping or if it's just rainwater. He could jump with happiness by the time he hits the coffin with the shovel. Seconds later, he hears the sound of Sam reaching it too, and they both work in sync from then on.

The younger Winchester has been watching his older brother's movements become slower and more labored. Dean's clearly struggling, and he's soaking wet. Sam just shakes his head as he pours gasoline all over the female corpse, knowing he'll have to drown this bitch in it to actually send her up in flames. Dean's going to be really sick later on, and his cold is bound to turn into something much worse. It would have been easier if Sam had done this on his own, but nothing is ever that simple when it comes to his stubborn jerk of a brother.

By the time they have salted and burned the bones, Dean is already completely bone-dead exhausted. He can barely move his feet, but shrugs off Sam's every attempt to help him to his baby. His head is killing him, and he's so stuffed up that he breathing is laboring. He shrugs off his coat the instant he gets in the car, thanking God that his undershirt is only a bit damp. He grabs a towel Sam left out and hands it to his brother, who motions for him to dry off his hair first.

Dean's quivering up a storm. He sneezes seven times in a row, using his shirtsleeve to wipe his nose since they've run out of tissues. Sam grimaces and reaches into the backseat, pulling out one of his winter coats (even though he's fully aware that it's only late September) and handing it to Dean, who thankfully accepts it without a word. He puts in on and crosses his arms over his chest, still shivering miserably. Greenish snot trickles out of his nose, and Sam winces in disgust as he watches him using his coat as a makeshift tissue.

The Harvelle's Roadhouse is much closer than the motel they're staying at, he decides. Dean needs a hot shower, warm pajamas, a mountain of Kleenex, and drugs badly. There's no way Sam can put him through this when the motel is nearly two hours away and the Roadhouse is less than one. He puts the Impala into drive, cranks the heat as he high as it will go, and rubs Dean's arm as he struggles to get comfortable enough to fall asleep against the window.

* * *

_At the Roadhouse_

It's nearly three in the morning when Ellen and Jo are closing up. The last overly drunk bastard left for the night only minutes ago, and the mother-daughter duo is exhausted. Sometimes, running this place can be a pain, but both usually enjoy their work here, especially Ellen. Ash turned in a long time ago, but she can still hear loud music emanating from his room, so she's assuming that he's still awake; he's just being his lazy self and not wanting to help clean.

When she hears a soft knock at the door, she groans.

"Who could that be at this time?" she asks her daughter, who just shrugs and continues to sleepily wipe down the counters with a washrag. Ellen pads over to the door and opens it up with full intentions of telling whomever it is that they're closed for the night. Her eyes widen when she sees a soaking wet Sam Winchester holding up his red-nosed big brother Dean, who seems to be fighting a losing battle with sleep. "Come in, boys," she says quickly, wanting to get both of them out of the thunderstorm outside as soon as possible. Sam nods and obliges.

"Woah," Jo says as she walks over to the brothers, "you guys look like shit, especially him." She notes that Dean is half-asleep in his brother's arms and is wheezing pretty loudly. Sam, on the other hand, looks equally exhausted with deep purple bags beneath his eyes. She wonders when the last time either of them slept was. She can tell by the look on her mom's face that they'll be staying in their spare bedroom for the night.

"C'mere, sweetie," Ellen says, taking Dean out of Sam's arms and sitting him down on a separate barstool. Dean immediately pillows his head in his folded arms, coughing quietly. Ellen rubs his back through the two sizes too big coat he's wearing and notices how hard he's shaking beneath her touch. "How long has he been like this?" she questions, hoping the younger of the two can clarify some things for her. Both boys look wiped out, so she'll try to make the assessment fast.

Sam scrubs a hand down his face. "He's had a cold for a couple days, but it's no longer that." He figures his brother probably has the flu and being out in the rain with nothing covering his head isn't going to do him any justice. Sam nearly jumps out of his skin when Jo grabs his hand, ushering him out of the room and down toward the bathroom. He's falling asleep where he's standing and can't bother with anything currently.

"Take a shower. We've got Dean."

Jo turns back around to go help her mother with the sick Winchester the instant she hears the shower water turn on. Her mom has him holding a wet cloth to his forehead while she rummages around for the medicine they keep in the bar. Sometimes, ill hunters will show up in need of a little TLC, and her mother is just the person to give some out. She's been sick many times in her life, and her mom has always been amazing when it came to this.

She takes a seat next to Dean, who looks absolutely miserable. "How're you feeling?"

He shrugs. "'m fine."

"Uh huh. Y'know, you could try to drop the tough guy routine. We've seen it before."

Dean rolls his eyes, but smiles at Jo. Their relationship has been a weird one, but that doesn't stop him from finding the younger woman attractive. He would probably try to hit on her if his head wasn't throbbing so intensely and his throat didn't feel so raw. He's just about to say something when Ellen pulls on the hood of his brother's coat and drags him down the hallway to their spare bedroom, nearly throwing him on to the bed.

"You're going to shower the second your brother gets out, you hear me?"

Dean nods. "Yes, ma'am."

Sam or someone must have carried in their duffel bags because they're sitting on the ground beside the bed. Dean pulls out Sam's grey hoodie he's kept since about a year ago, his pair of warmest black sweatpants, wool socks, and blue boxers. He takes out his contacts, takes a puff of his inhaler to try to alleviate the tightness in his chest, and lays down on a set of pillows on their queen sized bed, snuffling through his congestion.

Sam emerges from the bathroom wearing sweats and a t-shirt. He gently shakes his sleeping brother's shoulder, helps the drowsy man get in the shower, and waits patiently for him to get out. When Dean comes out of the shower, he's coughing, sniffling, and half-whimpering. He turns out the light and immediately drops into bed, curling up around Sam without uttering a word. Sam chuckles lightly and wraps his arms over his brother, falling asleep instantly.

* * *

_September 29, 2006_

Dean and Sam have been lying around in bed all day watching TV. The older of the two is miserably ill, but, even though he's been awfully queasy, he's thankful he hasn't tossed his cookies yet. The younger brother has been staying close, hoping to somehow relieve his symptoms by just being there for him. They're watching a Lifetime movie about a woman killing her husband when Ellen knocks at the door and opens it up.

"Well, you two look cozy," she states. Sam is practically snuggled into Dean's chest, and the older of the two has his arms wrapped around his brother. She imagines that the two of them were adorable when they were little. She knows how they've sacrificed for each other and how Sam's the brains of the operation and Dean's the one who takes action. And she also knows how much these two boys love each other, even if they're too much of boys to say it.

Sam nods, but Dean's attention doesn't waver from the television. He sniffles and sputters, sitting up and pushing his brother off of him gently. Sam grabs his inhaler and puts it in his mouth. Dean feels snot dripping out of his nose and on to his hoodie. Being this sick sucks. He's achy and cold and can't seem to get comfortable no matter what he does. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles, yawns, and then leans back in bed, exhausted from his little adventure.

"What in the hell is going on in here?" Ash practically screams as he enters the guest bedroom.

"He's sick, doofus," Jo says, coming in behind him.

Dean pulls his knees to his chest, leaning in closer to Sam. He buries his head in his sweats and wraps his arms around his legs. He isn't in the mood to be doted on, especially not by Ash. He's used to Sam and Sam alone seeing him in this state. He still doesn't feel anywhere near up to par, but Ellen and Jo come in constantly asking him if he wants something to eat or if he's feeling any better. He sniffles and wipes his nose on the fabric of his pants.

"Do you want any soup or somethin', man?" Ash questions.

"I think he's alright," Sam says, speaking for his brother. He knows that Dean has never handled being taken care of well. It's hard enough to do it for him, and he's his brother. Sam rubs the blond's back, noting that he's still quivering hard beneath his palm. Dean coughs once more, and Sam really wonders how he continuously manages to make himself this sick. He kind of wants Ash, Ellen, and Jo to leave for a bit. Like he said, this is difficult enough when they're alone.

Ellen nods, seeming to get the picture. "Alrighty then. Let's go, guys."

Sam returns a nod in appreciation and mouths a quick "thank you."

The second they leave and close the door, Dean lays his head on Sam's shoulder.

* * *

"How's he doing?" Ellen questions the second Sam emerges from their guest room.

Sam shrugs. "He's asleep now. I think he's freaking out about all of this."

"Why?"

Sam guesses Ellen just doesn't understand this. Dad left them alone a lot, and it didn't really matter if either of them were ill. He would still go hunting. Dean grew up extremely fast and had to learn to take care of himself and Sam all at the same time. Over the years, while Sam was getting older, he learned how to diagnose his brother and made sure he felt loved by giving him medicine or doing both of their chores that night.

"He just isn't used to it."

* * *

_September 30, 2006_

"Go fish," Ash says. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed the Winchester brothers have been sharing. Sam is cleaning out their awesome car since apparently they were both muddy messes the other night when they arrived, and Dean seemed kind of bored and alone when he passed by. The older Winchester is still extremely stuffed up, coughing wetly, and is running a low-grade temperature; it's just high enough to make him completely miserable.

Dean snuffles. "Got 'ny threes?" His voice is raw and hoarse.

"Go fish."

At least this is a decent way to pass the time and Ellen is trying to spoon-feed him anymore.

* * *

"You guys don't have to leave," Jo says.

Sam shakes his head and smiles thoughtfully. "I know, but Dean's getting to the point where he's stir crazy, and you won't want him here during that stage." He already helped his brother to the car, and he believes he's fast asleep against the window. He greatly appreciates all of their hospitality, but they're both at the point where they need to go. Plus, he's completely telling the truth when he says that Dean is basically hitting a brick wall with his illness.

"Well, it was nice having you both here," Ellen says, hugging Sam tightly.

"Yeah, it was sweet," says Ash.

Sam grins once more. "Thank you all so much. It really means a lot."

"Come back any time, Sam. You and your brother. I mean that."

Sam nods, smiles, and turns around into the fall sun, feeling much more alive than he has the past two days. He's a bit tired of being holed up with his sick brother, but he'll do just about anything to help his brother feel better. Dean's mouth is wide open, and he's snoring loudly through his congestion. He's wearing Sam's grey and red coat and is even utilizing the quilt Ellen gave to them. The younger Winchester snaps a quick picture on his phone and heads off down the road.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you enjoyed it, Taraneh! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	30. ParaNitroChick

**Author's Note:** I don't own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for your reviews, requests, and for reading! =)

Has anyone here ever tried to compile a top ten episode list? I'm trying to do it now, but I think I've proven it to be impossible. I have some favorites, such as "Yellow Fever" and "Born Under a Bad Sign," but it's really hard to rank them. I have favorite seasons and story lines; it's just that choosing individual episodes within them is crazy!

A recommendation: If you haven't watched Jensen sing in the Vegas Con videos on YouTube and Facebook, I highly suggest you watch them! It seems like Jensen is coming out of his shell a bit more and isn't as shy when it comes to singing. I remember a few years ago when he sang "The Weight" in 2010, and he was so nervous! No matter what, though, I will always love him for who he is.

ParaNitroChick requested: "How about a a good case of food poisoning? Maybe Dean eats a bad burger or pie where the fruit came in from a farm that had a bad harvest. I'm not shy about details. I've read quite a bit of graphic illness stuff. I'm kinda a sucker for sick Dean (and Sam too)." Since I wrote about a bad burger a few chapters ago, I think I'm going to go with the bad pie. Dean is getting sick from his favorite food in the world! I feel bad for him!

This is set in seven, right after 7x3 "The Girl Next Door."

Because having a bit of hurt Dean and angry Sam can go a long way too! Lucifer is not paying Sam visits. This also made me a little queasy writing it! And it may have turned out to be a bit more of a character study, but there are gross pukey Dean moments in it! I feel like the writers of the show could have capitalized on these instances a bit more. I'm not normally one who roots for Sam, but I can understand why Dean killing Amy honestly did hurt him a lot. It's never fun to see the brothers fight, but sometimes it has to happen.

* * *

ParaNitroChick

* * *

_October 10, 2011_

Sam's fast asleep when Dean goes for a drive.

He knows his brother is pissed off at him for killing Amy, but he did it to save people. They've done so much to make sure a bigger grand total remain alive and well. It's been years, but Dean still remembers Layla Rourke from the time his heart was barbequed. Sam's the one who practically forced them both to stop the reverend's wife from playing God and stealing healthy lives for sick ones. He found out she had died a few months later.

And, yet, he didn't fuss about it. It's part of their job, is what he realized a bit later. He gets that Sam was right and that they had to stop her right away. It couldn't wait just one more person. He understands the urgency, and, even though it hurt like hell, it all made sense to him. Sometimes, Dean wishes his little brother would look a bit deeper before he reacted in a difficult way. But, Sam _is _the youngest and always will be; Dean thinks that's a factor in all of this too.

It's only about two in the afternoon, and he's starving. Sam must have stayed up all night because he fell asleep right as Dean was waking up. The older Winchester didn't bother waking him before he left the motel; Sam's too upset with him anyway. He gets that Amy was his friend when they were teens for, like, a day, but that doesn't give her the right to kill people. She's a killer. He wants to scream at Sam for being so stupid about this situation, but that will just make it worse.

Dean pulls over at an old diner for lunch. He limps inside, noting that, even though he took off his cast only a minor six days earlier, his leg is already exhausted and a bit sore. He orders the fresh cherry pie and a black coffee, not really in the mood for much else other than pie; he figures he'll probably eat a few slices, so there's no reason to deal with actual food. Dean pulls out a newspaper, cradles his head in his left hand, and searches for a new hunt.

"Here you go, honey," the waitress says, dropping off the pie in front of a very hungry Winchester. Dean immediately digs in, moaning and groaning loudly with pleasure. This is the best freaking pie in the universe! It's so moist and sweet and way better than anything he remembers Bobby buying him during the three weeks he was holed up in Rufus's old cabin. Sam even forgot the pie, so that's worse since he's his brother.

Dean makes it through four slices before he leaves the diner with a full belly.

* * *

_A few hours later_

Sam wakes up to the sound of retching.

At first, he's too groggy and disoriented to understand what exactly is happening. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes and makes out that it's only a little past eight in the evening. He's slept all day, yet again. Since the accident, he's been more out of it than unusual; it isn't uncommon for Dean to stay up into the wee hours of the morning and sleep away the better part of an afternoon, but it is weird for Sam. He normally gets eight hours of sleep on the dot, not thirteen.

He hears what sounds like more vomit splashing in water. Sam frustratingly rolls over, not really wanting to deal with his brother at all. He's the only one who could possibly be making those noises. He killed Amy... Sam had a brief breath of normalcy from ages eighteen to twenty-two; Amy worked in a funeral home so she didn't have to kill people. And, then his brother goes over to her motel and kills her. Her son was sick. It wasn't her fault.

Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to make of this, to be honest. He's angry and hurt and he just wants Dean to understand. Dean's never wanted out of this life, so he wouldn't comprehend at all what Sam is feeling. Sometimes, he wishes he never had joined him at night nearly six years ago, but it's too late for wishing. Jess would still be dead, anyway. When he hears the toilet flush, he huffs in annoyance, runs a hand through his hair, and walks to the bathroom.

Dean is on his hands and knees in front of the toilet, a stream of light red-ish pink erupting from his mouth. One hand is wrapped around his middle, and the other is just barely holding him up. He's wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxers and grey socks, and he's a quivering mess. Sam doesn't rub his back like he typically does in these circumstances, but he does start a warm shower for his obviously ill brother. He helps Dean strip and pushes him in.

He listens to him retch violently in the shower and hears him slide to side on the ground. Sam rolls his eyes and opens the curtain to find him resting his head in between his knees. Shit. He quickly shampoos his hair, washes the puke and grime from his shivering body, and dries him off. He pulls a tattered and torn blue thermal and grey sweatpants. All the while, Sam watches his brother gulp and swallowing, trying his best to not throw up again.

The younger Winchester puts Dean back in bed, but not without noticing his brother's heavy limp from removing his cast too early, and grabs two cold washcloths, one for his forehead and one for his neck. He finds that being cool and having an upset stomach makes things work out better in the end. Sam sets a trashcan next to his ill brother's bed and glances over at him trying to get comfortable. The brunette removes the other two pillows from his bed and carefully places them beneath Dean's probably aching driving leg, noting how a look of ease creeps over his face.

Sam shuts out the light; Dean starts to snore within seconds.

* * *

_3:00 a.m._

"S'mmy..."

Dean sits straight up in bed and promptly vomits all over himself and the comforter. The shit dribbles from his chin. His stomach gurgles and burns, and he knows immediately that he shouldn't have eaten those four slices of cherry pie. Damn things were probably friggin' poisonous. A sea of leftover sour delicacy drenches his bed and his clothes, and his stomach feels as if its just getting started being completely and entirely evil.

"Sam..." he mumbles, trying to get his sleeping brother's attention.

"Wha?" Sam moans, scratching his head and rolling over. "What's wrong?"

Dean blinks away the tears swelling in his eyes from the pain. "Got sick..."

The older Winchester watches his brother flip on the lamp and his eyes widen instantly. He hops out of bed and balls up the soiled comforter. Dean notices that the vomit is even drenching his sweats. How in the hell did that happen? Sam scowls and cringes, most likely in disgust. Dean sniffles and hears his stomach gurgle even louder. Without warning, he vomits once again, only, this time, most of it happens to land on his baby brother.

"'m really sorry," he grumbles, gripping on to his stomach. Dean picks himself up and limps into the bathroom, collapsing on to his knees hard enough to leave bruises and continues throwing up in the toilet. His head is pounding, and his cheeks are too hot. Unlike the last time, Sam rubs his back and tells him that it will be alright. Sweat pours into his eyes, and he can't help but let tears stream down his flushed cheeks; he feels too exhausted to deal with it.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam whispers.

Dean hears the shower water being turned on once again and moans. His stomach is killing him, and his leg is throbbing. He wants sleep and drugs and his brother. His filthy shirt and pants are removed from him, and he relishes the cold water covering his body. It makes his sick stomach feel just a little better. Sam helps him clean himself completely, and he even helps him get dressed once more. His stomach isn't churning as much anymore.

Sam has no choice but to bundle him into his own bed, and Dean couldn't feel like anymore of a burden even if he wanted to. He killed Amy, Sam's pissed at him, and he's sick. Just perfect. Sam props up his leg with pillows again and covers him up. Without another word, his little brother clicks off the lamp and crawls in beside him, immediately rolling over with his back facing Dean. And Dean can't help but feel like he's _really _screwed up this time.

* * *

_5:30 a.m._

"Sam?"

"What, Dean?"

"I'm sorry."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"For killing Amy. I shouldn't have."

* * *

_7:00 a.m._

"Sam?"

The younger Winchester angrily rolls over and faces his brother in the darkness. He hasn't been able to fall asleep yet because Dean won't actually bother to go to sleep. Sam's just about pushed over the edge at this point. He's exhausted after taking care of Dean, and he won't give him enough courtesy to even try to rest. He's been tossing and turning, moaning and groaning, and even apologizing to him in the middle of him trying to go to bed.

"What the hell do you want Dean?"

He watches his brother gulp. "To, um, apologize."

It doesn't matter how much he apologizes. Dean always does this. He shoots without asking questions, and it's been a chronic issue his whole life. He knows that Dad basically shoved that down his throat while growing up, but he should know the fine lined differences by now. His older brother is no longer this eleven year old kid who has to listen to his father. Their dad's been dead for years now, and it's time for him to acknowledge that.

"Save your breath, dude. I don't wanna hear it."

Dean huffs and pushes himself out of bed, limping over to his duffel bag to grab a new t-shirt. He has visibly sweated through the one he has on. Sam figures he's done vomiting, but he's probably going to be sore and lethargic for the next day or so. The younger Winchester places his arms behind his head and stares at the ceiling. He was out. He could have stayed out. And Amy could have lived had his brother not taken her life into his own hands.

He wishes Dean wouldn't make all of the decisions without consulting him at least briefly first.

Sam squirms away when his brother lies back down. He pushes the hand on his shoulder away.

"Dude, listen to me. I get why you're pissed at me, okay? I really do. But, man, you gotta understand why I did it. What if she had gone dark side and went after more innocent people? You know we can't let that behavior slide, not for anyone. We never have. She was your friend. You thought she could stay clean. But, Sammy, she couldn't. I don't care if her kid was sick or not. She was bound to do it again."

Tears spill over Sam's cheeks. "You're wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"I said you're wrong, Dean! She could have fought it!"

"How? Enlighten me then!"

Sam huffs and sits up, facing his brother with puffy eyes and swollen cheeks. "You couldn't pull the trigger either, remember?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"A few years back. I _asked _you to kill me that night I was possessed by Meg. You wouldn't do it. All my life, I've felt like something evil was inside of me, something separating me from you and even Dad. Like I was destined to become some blood-sucking demon. And, then I became one. I've been through so much bullshit that I've caused. I want to believe people are good because that's what I'm trying to be, Dean! Don't you get that?"

Sam jumps out of bed and moves to sit at the kitchen table. It doesn't take long for Dean to limp over and sit across from him. Tears are still flowing from his eyes like a leaky hose, and his heart is beating rapidly into his chest. He feels like he's losing his mind and like he's fighting a losing battle. He's crazy; he already knows it. And he's waiting for the moment Lucifer or something worse pops up in his mind and controls his thoughts and movements.

It's been years, and he's still on that.

He's evil; he's destined to it.

"Sam."

"What?" he spits harshly.

"Look, I'm sorry, man."

Sam slaps his hands on the table. "That's not enough, Dean! It never will be."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry if this wasn't what you were looking for, ParaNitroChick, but I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	31. ebonywarrior85 (I)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazingly great television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

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Thank you guys so much for your lovely reviews, requests, and for just reading!

I can't believe this is the 29th request I've written and my 30th chapter! Thanks again for all of your support! =)

On March 19, 2012, we welcomed a new member into our SPN family! Happy 3rd birthday, Thomas Colton Padalecki! He's Jared's mini-me, and he is so precious and adorable! I hope you have an awesome birthday with your family!

Imagine little Sam as Tom when he gets older! That's what I did here! I also based it off of the picture of Jared in "What Is and What Should Never Be." Thomas and Jared are _definitely _twins. Haha, just joking. But seriously though. Like father like son. I remember when I watched the first episode and thought that the show was going to be mostly young Sam and Dean growing up the way they did. I was wrong, but I do like the little glimpses we get to see in episodes.

ebonywarrior85 requested: "What about Bobby taking care of a sick, young Dean? Like when he was ten and Sam was six." I haven't written a wee!Chester in a really long time in this story, so this will be a bit different. I also haven't written about either of the boys when they're this young, besides when I wrote about two year old Dean having the stomach flu way back in the beginning of these one-shots. I bet Sam was so adorable this young!

* * *

ebonywarrior85 (I)

* * *

_July 16, 1989_

Sam has been bouncing off the walls all day. On this particular summer afternoon, the small six year old decided to trash his and Dean's shared bedroom, Bobby's office, and eat nearly every bit of food the old man owns. Currently, he's running off a massive sugar high in the sprinkler system that he uses to water his lawn, shirtless, shoeless, and smiling largely. Bobby chuckles as the brunette laughs to himself, having fun in the sun for the first time in a long while.

John doesn't really let either of his boys go outside, that much Bobby knows for sure. It's a shame really. With Sam being six and his older brother only ten, they need sunlight, energy, and, most of all, fun, something that the Winchester brothers' diet seriously lacks. Sam is much easier to entertain with the little things; Dean, who is sprawled out on the couch watching television, is a bit harder. He doesn't want to play in the sprinklers, and Bobby can at least understand that much.

Dean, even though he's a bit on the short side for a soon-to-be fifth grader, acts too old for his age. He actually enjoys washing and folding laundry, reading to his younger brother, and, for the current moment, doing homework. It's summer for the numerous schools he's attended, and the older man can tell that he's getting bored. He's been shuttled to and from their crappy apartment to Bobby's, Pastor Jim's, and basically whoever else will take them off his father's hands.

Bobby takes a seat on the other end of the couch, rubbing Dean's socked foot slightly. The ten year old's eyes are drooping closed whilst watching some random cartoon. He isn't sure how well the kid sleeps with his brother rolling all over them in the queen-sized bed they share; Sam's always been a fitful sleeper who sprawls and kicks and hits. Dean's quite the opposite. He typically stays in one position the whole night and rests quietly on his stomach.

"You wanna go throw the ball around?" Bobby asks.

Dean's eyes groggily pop open. "No thanks," he says in a hushed tone.

"C'mon, boy. You need some sun. You're lookin' whiter and whiter everyday."

The blond Winchester rolls his eyes slightly. "I don't wanna do anything," is all he says.

Just as Bobby is about to ask why Dean's acting so gloomy, a muddy, wet Sam sprints through the door, blubbering and pointing down to his bloody knees. "I fell!" he screeches, immediately running straight into his older brother's arms. Bobby watches the blond boy hold on to Sam, not caring that he's getting him wet and bloody too, and he smiles. Not because the younger one is hurt, but because of how great of a big brother Dean's turning out to be.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Sammy," Dean says, picking him up and carrying him into the kitchen. Bobby notes that the taller boy's movements are stiff and slow and that his eyes are squinting in the light of the room, even though there's not much sunlight streaming through the windows. Instead of stepping in and helping to patch Sam up, Bobby sits in the living room, knowing full well that the ten year old is perfectly capable and doesn't accept help with his brother.

Sam's wailing stops not long after Dean places the last dinosaur Band-Aid over his scrapes. Dean wipes his face with a washcloth. "Do you wanna go back outside?" he asks. His voice is still too quiet and sounds a bit on the scratchy side. Sam just holds his hands out, and the older Winchester picks him up, carrying him back to the couch. He changes Sam's clothes, settling on a t-shirt their father got him from Tennessee that has a bear on it and khaki shorts from the suitcase they keep downstairs. The six year old is clearly exhausted. It's naptime.

Dean curls up behind his brother and lets him pick the channel.

Bobby smiles when both boys fall asleep almost instantly.

* * *

"What do you guys want for dinner?" Bobby asks, sitting down across from the brothers. Sam is coloring with mostly broken crayons, and Dean is staring mindlessly out the window. Bobby is wondering what in the hell is going on with the older Winchester. It's almost as if he's depressed or something, but there's no way a ten year old would even know what that meant. He's been staying here for a little over a week now, and he's been sulking around for a major part of it.

"Chicken nuggets!" Sam shrieks.

Bobby shakes his head, but still smiles. "No way, kid. You're going to turn into a chicken nugget if you keep eating them."

"Right," Sam says. "Umm...pancakes!"

Dean sighs and continues looking out the window with his head propped up by his hand. Bobby really hopes the boy will cheer up, but he looks so...sad. He's used to the separation between him and his father and takes care of Sam amazingly well; Bobby wonders about the effects all of this has on someone who is so young. In a lot of ways, Sam still has his innocence. Dean lost his the second his mother died burning on the ceiling five and a half years ago.

"What sounds good to you, Dean?"

The older Winchester just shrugs.

"Pizza!" Sam shouts. "That's what Dean likes best."

Bobby grins. "Alrighty, then. Pizza it is. Put your shoes on, boys."

* * *

The pizza parlor is small but packed. Bobby, Sam, and Dean have to wait nearly twenty minutes just to be seated and another fifteen for their order to be taken. Dean thankfully brought a book to occupy his hyperactive brother and has been reading it to him most of this time. It's the most he's heard his voice the entire time he's been staying at his house. He knows the blond boy has never really talked all that much in the first place, but he's been way quieter this time around.

Even though both of the boys took a nap earlier, Dean still seems exhausted. It's shocking to see a ten year old with deep purple bags beneath bloodshot eyes and an expression of dread plastered on his face. He's normally at least energetic around his brother, who is more on the ADHD side of things at his very young age. It's no doubt that, even though he doesn't receive much credit, Dean is incredibly mature and intelligent; he's wise beyond his years.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Sam asks, scooting closer to his brother.

"What? Uh, yeah, Sammy. I'm fine."

"Are you sad?"

"No, buddy. Quit asking me questions."

"Dean," Bobby says, "He's just worried about you."

The older Winchester rolls his eyes, but still remains passive and nearly silent. "Sorry, Sam."

When their half cheese and half pepperoni pizza arrives, Dean's face turns a pale shade of green. Bobby pretends not to notice, especially with how strange the young kid's behavior has been. Dean's never taken well to unnecessary attention, and saying something now will probably just irritate him more than anything. Bobby and Sam immediately grab for their slices, but the blond stays still, his hands resting beneath his thighs.

"Aren't ya gonna eat, son?" Bobby asks.

And, then, without any warning, Dean throws up all over the table.

* * *

_Later that night_

Dean's been lying upstairs in bed since they arrived home from the pizza parlor. He's sporting a fever of 102 and is trying to hide how miserable he is. The vomiting is clearly the biggest clue of them all, but Bobby feels like he should have caught on quicker. Truth is, he's never really dealt with a sick Dean before. He doesn't know what it's like over in the Winchester house or if John even addresses that his boys are ill. He figures he probably has to with Sam, but, as always, Bobby isn't sure how Dean falls into the equation.

"Is Dean gonna be okay?" Sam asks, padding up to Bobby. He's got chocolate smeared across his face, and he is only wearing one white sock instead of two. The brunette's hair is a floppy mess, and the older man knows without a doubt that it's time for a bath. Bobby picks the younger boy up and tosses him over his shoulders, tickling his bare stomach. Sam laughs and kicks and screams happily. At least one Winchester is okay here.

Bobby puts him back down on the floor. "Yeah, bud. I think so."

"He's sick," Sam states matter of factly.

Bobby nods. "I know. What does your daddy do to make him feel better?"

The short brunette shrugs. "He doesn't do anything, really."

The cap wearing man knows he shouldn't be surprised, but he can't shake the feeling. Sam is so incredibly lucky to have Dean, and he doubts that, since they're brothers, he will ever notice what Dean's sacrificed for him. Sometimes, Bobby honest to God can't stand John Winchester. The way he drops his boys off on doorsteps and then proceeds to leave them for days and days on end disgusts him. He understands he wants to avenge Mary's killer, but neglecting his sons isn't going to help. If anything, it will just traumatize them both.

"I give Dean the medicine I can find," Sam states.

Great. Just great.

* * *

_July 17, 1989_

When Bobby goes upstairs to check on Dean, he's sound asleep. He's curled into a ball on his side, snoring quietly. He wonders how many times this poor kid's been let down in his life. He doesn't want to be his father and shove him to the side. Bobby wants Dean to feel included and, more importantly, wanted. He doesn't know if Dean understands what that feels like, other than from his little brother. He also just wants him to be okay.

"Dean," Bobby whispers, holding a cup of medicine in his hand. "Wake up."

The boy's a light sleeper, so he rolls over and opens his eyes instantly. "Time's it?"

"It doesn't matter. You just need to worry about gettin' better."

Dean swings his bare legs over the side of the bed. "Gotta watch Sammy."

Bobby gently pushes the boy back in bed. "I've got your brother for the day, Dean."

It seems like he doesn't have too much energy to fight, and he gives into Bobby easily. He swallows the red medicine without another word and throws the comforter over his body. Bobby takes a seat next to him, softly rubbing his back. Dean tenses so hard beneath his palm that the older man can tell he has his fists clenched. He tells the young boy that it's okay. It's something so simple, but he knows the ten year old has never experienced.

* * *

_July 18, 1989_

"I'm bored!" Sam yells, the sentiment echoing off the walls of the old house.

Bobby can't help but rolls his eyes. Looking after this bundle of energy is tough work, especially with Dean under the weather. The blond is currently lying on the couch beneath two thick blankets, struggling with his fever and shivering like it's the dead of winter. Bobby's ran out of things to do with the younger Winchester. Sam has protested loudly that he wants to play with his brother, but Bobby has had to come up with new and clever ways to entertain the boy.

Sam runs over to his brother and plops on to his lap, holding _To Kill a Mocking Bird _in his hand. Bobby has no idea in hell why Sam or Dean has that book, but that's what the brothers have been reading together. He also isn't sure how either of them comprehends such a read, but, like he's said before, they're both ridiculously smart. Bobby guesses that the boys read a lot while their father is away hunting. Sam's crazy about his books.

"Can we keep going?" he asks his brother. Bobby tries to decide if he should pull Sam away.

But he doesn't. Dean nods, sits up, and lets Sam curl into a heap on his lap, listening intently as his brother begins to read.

"_Jem was twelve. He was difficult to live with, inconsistent, moody. His appetite was appalling, and he told me so many times to stop pestering him I consulted Atticus: "Reckon he's got a tapeworm?" Atticus said no, Jem was growing. I must be patient with him and disturb him as little as possible."_

Bobby chokes back the tears when he witnesses Dean plant a quick kiss on Sam's head.

* * *

_July 20, 1989_

It's been four days since Dean got sick. Four days of puking, fevers, and headaches. Four days of Sam acting like a different kid, becoming increasingly impatient without his brother, and throwing tantrums like he's two again. Four days since he's seen Dean smile. Bobby takes a sip of coffee and glances out into the early afternoon sun. Outside, Sam and Dean are chasing each other in the sprinklers, laughing and giggling and just being brothers.

He can't credit this to John. He can't credit this to himself. He can only credit it to Dean. At ten years old, this kid has proven more than once that he's the sole provider of his brother's needs. John may give them money and a roof over their heads, but Dean cooks, cleans, and puts everything else, specifically the well being of his brother, in front of himself. Bobby grins as Dean lifts Sam up into the air and watches his sons play like boys should.

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**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, ebonywarrior85! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	32. Em (III)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television amazingly wonderful show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you guys for following, favoriting, requesting, reviewing, and reading! =)

Em requested: "What about Dean, who already has a bad head cold, on of their cases runs into a witness with cats and has an allergic reaction and ends up a ridiculously sneezy mess for a couple of days that Sam makes fun of. Although the initial allergic reaction could be more serious if you wanted for optimal caretaking opportunities, of course!" I wish we got to see more of allergic Dean during that episode. I mean, we had a sneezy Dean and a sick Sam all in one episode (8x15 "Man's Best Friend With Benefits")! What a feat for the fandom!

This is set in season five. It's way before we know about the allergy, but Dean's most likely had it his whole life anyway.

* * *

Em (III)

* * *

_November 30, 2009_

Dean's barely slept in three days. He's been coughing himself awake and sputtering violently. Sam gave in and bought a six-pack of tissue boxes, four of which are already gone. He easily blows his nose once a minute, leaving it red and raw. Currently, he's sitting up in a crappy motel room bed with a tissue balled up inside his left nostril; Sam think it's nasty, but he guesses that anything will work if he feels a little better.

On top of it all, he's running a fever. It's nothing like a 103 degree fever that knocks him on his ass for a week straight, but it's the moderately low, usually between 100 and 101, and makes him even more miserable. Needless to say, he's got one hell of a head cold that seems to get progressively worse with each passing second. Sam wonders how much more of this his brother can take. He can't sleep, won't eat, and is deteriorating from exhaustion.

And, yet, he still wants to hunt.

God help him, Sam can hardly stand it. Between Dean pecking away on their laptop, reading newspaper articles, and him whining about how shitty he feels, Sam's sure he's bound to go nuts. Somehow, even when situations are as sucky as this one, his brother manages to act like he's perfectly able to hunt. He guesses Dean can't even walk in a straight line right now, let alone aim a gun at something and be able to have the strength and coordination to pull the trigger.

"Shifter in Michigan," he says, snuffling and hacking immediately afterword. Dean's voice is hoarse and can barely rise above a whisper. Days and nights of repeated coughing will do that to a guy, but Sam's sick of hearing his sick brother's voice. He wishes he had all the NyQuil in the world to knock him out, but even the highest safe dosage isn't enough to make him fall asleep, at least not when his head cold has decided to crank it to eleven.

He rolls his eyes. "Go to bed, Dean."

"Can't sleep. Y'already know that."

Sam can't help but feel bad. His heart aches for his older brother; it honestly does. He wishes he could find a way to make him comfortable, but nothing works. Elevating his pillows to ease the congestion makes his coughing worse. Sleeping on his stomach, which is how he prefers to sleep, makes his nose pour snot all over the bed. His nose is too stuffed to make lying on his side any better. There still has to be something he isn't thinking of.

He needs him to fall asleep. Sam has a theory that, once he's out, he'll be out for a while.

"What would make you feel better?" he asks, tired of racking his brain for answers.

Dean shrugs nonchalantly. "Dunno," he says in a nasally voice. "A bullet to the head?"

Sam pads over to his brother's bed from the kitchen table and crawls in next to him. He pulls Dean down by his shoulder and turns off the lamp. It's just past ten at night, Sam's tired, and he can literally feel his brother shaking from exhaustion. His last dose of medicine was thirty minutes ago, and now would be the time where any effects would begin. Unfortunately, the younger Winchester passes out before his brother has time to get comfortable.

* * *

_December 1, 2009_

"Are you sure you're up for this, man?" Sam questions. Dean looks like he's going to collapse any second now, and they're sitting in the Impala, for Christ's sake. His nose is Crayola red, and there's a definite fever blush extended across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. He's three shades paler than normal and is slow and lethargic as hell. Sam vows to let his brother sit in on the interview, even though he himself doubts he'll talk much, but not let him even step foot out of the hotel after. He only did this to get Dean to shut up for two Goddamn seconds.

Dean nods, but doesn't bother justifying anything with words. Sam reaches behind him and into his open duffel bag the instant he sees that snow is starting to fall from the sky. He tugs a dark blue beanie over the shorter man's probably aching ears, not wanting to worsen this thing at all. They need to kick it in the ass, but it's impossible when Dean refuses to settle down. Sam internally cringes as he watches him drag himself stiffly out of the car.

The walk to the witness's front door is unbearably long, but Dean shoves away his brother's attempts for help each time he offers it. Sam rings the doorbell while Dean stands there shivering in his fake FBI suit with his hands in his pockets. The witness is a little old lady with a perm and an extremely bright smile. She's acting like it's more of a summer day versus a terribly miserable nearly winter day. Sam hears Dean sigh once they enter the home.

"Would you boys like any tea or coffee?" Grace Miller asks.

Dean nods. "Coffee please." Sam winces at the sound of his voice.

"Tea for me," he says.

"Alrighty then. Be right back, boys. Make yourselves feel at home."

Grace Miller really does seem like a nice lady, but Sam does notice something very early on. Grey and yellow cat fur covers the couch they're sitting on. He gulps and starts to bite his bottom lip. Dean's already sick. Shit. He just hopes the cat allergy isn't as severe as it was when they were kids. Once, when Dean was eleven, he had a reaction that lasted for nearly a week. Dad was so pissed off because he couldn't go to school, and Sam wasn't old enough to watch him.

Thankfully, Ms. Miller brings in the beverages, and Dean still hasn't seemed to notice the fur yet. Sam relaxes a bit, his muscles loosening as they get through the first few minutes of the interview without any mishaps. Dean quietly sips on his coffee, holding a pen in his right hand and the mug in his left, seeming to be in deep thought and concentration. Or, Sam figures, he's so tired that he'll do just about anything to keep himself alert to avoid sleeping when he's this sick.

A few more minutes in, Sam begins to notice the scratching. Dean is clawing at his lower arm like there's a bug bite he can't seem to relieve no matter how much he digs at it. His eyes are watering and turning a pale shade of red. Moments later, the sneezes that Sam's sure have damaged his ears the past few days start. Ms. Miller stops her story about how her next door neighbor died and curiously looks at the fake FBI agent.

"Is he alright?" she inquires.

"Uh," Sam stammers. "Yeah, he's, um...he's okay." Dean rubs his eyes with his knuckles harshly, sputtering and coughing harshly into the open air instead of into his sleeves. Sam massages his back for a second and then hoists his brother up, throwing his arm over his shoulder. "I'm really sorry, Ms. Miller, but we'll have to finish this up another time. My partner's not feeling too well. He practically has to drag him out to the Impala and throw him in the passenger seat.

Dean is doing double time by scratching his arm with one hand and his eye with the other. Then, he switches off arm and eye with his hands, giving them their turn to be itched. Sam acknowledges how bloodshot and puffy his eyes are and how his arm is beginning to bleed from the viciousness of his digging. Sam holds his fingers; they're twitching violently. Dean coughs once more and grumbles quietly, but doesn't whine about it this time.

Shit.

* * *

By the time they make it back to the motel, Dean has removed his suit jacket, dress shirt, and was working on taking off his undershirt when Sam stops him. He's developed hives on his cheeks, hands and arms, and most likely his stomach and back too. It's still snowing outside, but Sam doesn't bother to bundle his brother up for the three second walk to the door. When they make it inside, Dean scrambles to the bathroom and immediately turns on the shower water.

Sam isn't far behind him. He pulls out Benadryl capsules, NyQuil, and some random anti-itch ointment they have. Dean coughs and sneezes at the same time while he's in the shower. Sam swears he can hear his teeth chattering from here. He gathers up comfortable clothes for him, which consists of one of Sam's oversized grey t-shirts he typically wears when he's sick and flannel pajama pants. He swallows the lump in his throat harshly.

Dean comes out the shower looking like a monster. His eyes are nearly swollen shut, the whites of his eyes pink and barely visible. He looks like he's been crying for weeks on end with no relief. His entire upper body is a mar of nasty, red hives. Dean scratches hysterically, even as Sam is applying the ointment. The silence, though, is what's scaring Sam the most. The entire time his brother's been sick, he's been milking it. However, Sam knows that when it's really serious, Dean will barely recognize it or utter a word about how he truly feels.

"I'm sorry, bro," Sam says quietly.

"Why?" Dean mouths, his voice entirely shot.

Sam continues to rub in the medicine, which seems to be soothing him now. "We shouldn't have gone in there."

Dean musters up some vocals. "I was the one who pushed you to do it. I'm sorry."

He's a quivering mess by the time Sam finishes. He swallows the Benadryl while downing the NyQuil. Sam helps him into bed and then curls up next to him. Dean can't breathe through his nose, can barely breathe through his mouth, and is still fidgeting like he's going to scratch his face off. Sam grabs his hand and holds it, noticing how he calms down considerably once he does this. He smiles in relief when he notices that Dean has finally fallen asleep.

* * *

_December 2, 2009_

It's five in the morning when the heavy wheezing penetrates Sam's ears. Dean has rolled on to his side; snot is just pouring from his nostrils and drenching his shirt and the pillow beneath him. Sam clicks on the lamp. Dean is sweating up a storm, shivering violently, sputtering in his slumber, and, worst of all, wheezing loudly. It's asthma attack wheezing, which is the crux of what Sam's holding on to in this situation.

He gets out of bed and grabs Dean's blue inhaler from his duffle. He doesn't want to wake his brother up, but, then again, he isn't exactly sure how this shortness of breath hasn't made him wake up. Sam shakes his shoulder a bit harsher than he wanted to, but it does help pull him from his drug-induced sleep. Dean cracks open still bloodshot eyes and mumbles something incoherent to Sam's ears. He sticks the inhaler in his mouth and pushes down twice on the canister.

"Dude!" Dean half-shouts, sitting straight up in bed. "What the hell?"

"You were wheezing! I didn't know if you were having an attack!"

"Jesus," he grumbles.

Sam sits back down on the bed. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Think so."

* * *

"C'mon, Rudolph, time for your meds," Sam says, holding out the two pills and the cup of NyQuil to his brother.

Dean huffs in annoyance. "Call me Rudolph again and I swear I'll kick you where the sun don't shine."

Sam chuckles and pads across the room to the kitchen table with bare feet. Dean still looks like shit; don't get him wrong. His eyes are less irritated and swollen, but they're bloodshot to hell. Beneath his eyes are dark purple bags from barely sleeping. Beneath the bags are remnants of the hives from his allergic reaction to that old lady's cats yesterday. He left a few random scratches on his cheeks from clawing at his face a bit too hard.

All things considering, Sam guesses it could be worse.

* * *

_December 3, 2009_

Thirty-six sneezes.

Sam wishes he were deaf.

Dean's sneezed thirty-six times within the last hour.

"H'ACHOO!"

Thirty-seven.

Make that thirty-seven.

* * *

_December 4, 2009_

"'s only four days til Christmas, Sammy..."

"There's twenty-one days left, Dean."

"H'kshshh! N'way. D'nt believe you."

"Well, believe me, brother. Wipe your nose. You've got a slime ball hanging from there."

* * *

_December 5, 2009_

"H'rsshsshh! H'gnnsihh!"

"Jesus fucking Christ, dude! I can't take it anymore!"

"Wha?"

"That! You look _and sound_ ridiculous! Please tell me that was your last sneeze!"

"H'achoo!"

"I'm gonna kill you."

* * *

_December 6, 2009_

For the first time in a few days, Dean has showered and shaved. He's wearing his glasses and is bundled up in Sam's hoodie, classic signs of him not feeling well, but he looks a shit ton better. Sam basically has a sneeze calculator, and he hasn't sneezed once in the last two hours and twenty-three minutes. That's a lot of progress considering he was sneezing once a minute for two straight days. They've gone through nearly a dozen boxes of Kleenex.

Sam watches Dean collapse back into bed and immediately walks over to him. He places his hand on his forehead; it's painfully hot. Dean doesn't even bother to protest. It seems as though the allergic reaction part is over, but, of course, he's still sick enough to be on complete lockdown for a few more days. Sam will gladly take this version of his ill brother over him sneezing constantly any day. The younger Winchester grabs some Tylenol and a bottle of water.

"Here you go, dude," he whispers. Dean looks like he barely has enough strength to pull himself up long enough to swallow the pills. Sam just removes his glasses and sets them on the nightstand. He may have just woken up, but he already needs to lie back down for a few hours. Maybe a nap will do him some justice. Dean's eyes flutter closed, and he gives in without a fight. He feels terrible because he's still sick, but Sam's grateful to not have a delirious older brother on his hands anymore.

Even though listening to his brother hum "Stars and Stripes Forever" was endlessly amusing.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you enjoyed it, Em! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	33. lenail125 (II)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did.

* * *

Thank you guys so much for your reviews, requests, and for reading! =)

lenail125 requested: "What about a story of Dean facing his fear of flying? Maybe because of a hunt in the other part of the world that one of Bobby's contacts needs help with and Bobby calls the boys for help. Of course Sammy is there to help him face his fear. I like fluff. :)" I love fluff too! Since this is a sick and hurt Dean series, he obviously is going to get airsick just because it provides Sam even more of an opportunity to fuss over him.

This is set in season two.

* * *

lenail125

* * *

_February 7, 2007_

"You want us to do what now?" Dean asks. He immediately starts to chew on his bottom lip; he winces when he nibbles a bit too hard and makes it bleed. Then, he begins to pace back and forth in Bobby's living room. Why is he making them do this? What exactly is so important that he and his brother have to _fly_ there to hunt? He's never handled any form of transportation that doesn't involve being on the ground well. He...well, he gets kind of queasy.

Sam stops him by pressing the heels of his hands on to his shoulders. Says something about wearing a hole through the floor. His mind is racing; hell, he just woke up. He shouldn't have to deal with this level of bullshit until at least noon. He's in his freaking pajamas, and Bobby's telling them that they'll have to _fly _to Paris. Hell no. That's not happening. It doesn't matter how hot French girls probably are or that he finds it weird that they eat snails.

Unfortunately for him, he hears his brother agreeing to go.

"What?! No! Sam, we can't!

"Why? We're not doing anything more important."

Dean makes a face at him that he doesn't understand. He then starts to make a crazy hand gesture. Like he's supposed to know what that means. Sam thinks a bit harder; he figures it out quickly. He puts his hand on his brother's shoulder, but doesn't resend his offer to go to Paris for Bobby. Dean needs to face up to this fear of flying. Traveling by car everywhere just isn't plausible. Plus, they kind of can't cross the ocean in the Impala.

"Great," Bobby says. "You boys leave tomorrow marnin'."

The older Winchester gulps and punches his brother harshly in the arm.

* * *

Sam notices that Dean's hands are shaking slightly while he's folding his clothes. The blond has yet to look him in the eye since earlier when he agreed to go on the ten hour flight from Sioux Falls to Paris. He knows his brother has this issue with flying; he remembers last year when they had to stop a demon passenger on a flight, and the plane almost went down. Even before that, he could just sense that airplanes in general weren't a favorite of Dean's.

"It'll be alright, Dean," Sam says. He's trying to be helpful and be a good brother. Brothers help each other face fears all the time. When Sam was younger, due to their dad's job, he would grow scared of every monster he's fearless of now. Dean would comfort him and say those exact words to him, hoping to get him to go back to sleep or play or do whatever "normal" kids do. He wants Dean to know that he'll be right by his side if anything happens.

Dean scoffs. "Not a baby, Sam. I can handle this."

Sam is less than confident about that statement.

* * *

_February 8, 2007_

It's a little past four in the morning when Sam grips Dean's shoulder and pulls him from his slumber. His brother is facedown on their shared queen bed, snoring quietly and entirely passed out. Sam feels guilty for waking him, but their flight leaves at six, and it will take both of them time to get ready and actually arrive at the airport. It takes a few times before his brother's eyes pop open, and, when they do, Dean is pissed. Really pissed.

"The hell 'm I doin' up s'early?"

"Our flight leaves soon, Deano. Up and at 'em."

"Screw you, Sammy. 'm goin' back to sleep." He proceeds to roll back over on to his belly and throws the pillow over his head. His eyes are viciously drooping, and they feel swollen and puffy. It's a wonder he even fell asleep considering the bomb that was dropped yesterday about the flight. He's been jumping out of his skin since then, and he is dreading leaving Bobby's house because that means that all of this is actually real.

The younger Winchester hoists the older up, patting him on the back lightly. He directs his exhausted brother into the bathroom, shoving a pair of comfortable clothes in his hands; Sam set them out earlier for him, figuring that being on a plane for ten hours will get kind of uncomfortable. The brunette changes in the middle of their room, giving his angry brother the bathroom first for once. He's just pulling on a hoodie when Dean emerges from the bathroom with still wicked bedhead, wearing worn out jeans and a red sweatshirt that used to be Sam's.

It's well known that Dean doesn't take well to changes. He likes staying at motels, driving his baby, spending nights at Bobby's, eating shitty diner food that's excessively bad for him, and, most of all, feeling like he's the sole provider for his brother. Sam takes the reigns in smaller ways. He makes sure Dean is okay in a mental state, which often means sacrificing his comfiest clothes in order to make the blond feel better about whatever crappy situation they're in.

"What're you lookin' at?" the older of the two mumbles.

Sam shrugs. "Nothing." He tries to ignore that Dean's opted for his glasses instead of contacts.

He prays that it's not a sign of something terrible happening on the flight.

* * *

"I don't think we should do this."

Sam steps in front of his brother and stops him dead in his tracks. Dean shifts and boosts the one-strap he's rocking on his backpack up higher, making him look all of fourteen years old again. "Dude, you'll be fine. What're you so worried about?" He'll never really understand Dean fully, he realizes. He always acts so _tough _and _fearless_, but, right now, he's shying away. The impeccable confidence is shattering, and his witty insults are suffering.

Dean shrugs for, like, the thousandth time in the hour and a half they've been awake.

"I'll be right there next to you, Dean."

This time, his older brother just nods and follows him on to the plane. They're sitting near the back, courtesy of Bobby. He opts to give Dean the aisle seat, figuring the feeling of freedom and not being confided between the window and him will do him some justice. When they sit down, his brother already looks like he's going to pass out. His face is as white as a sheet of paper, and he's breathing heavily. He removes his glasses and scrubs his hands down his face.

Dean's heart is pounding out of his chest the entire time they're taking off. The plane revving up and the engines and the smell of peanuts (how?!) and his brother holding on to his hand prove to be too much for him. He hums "Enter Sandman" and grips on to the hand and his arm rests with all of his strength. He closes his eyes tightly and clenches his jaw, praying for them to be up in the air safely. It isn't until he senses the plane level out and hears the pilot over the intercom that he feels like they aren't going to die in a fiery ball of twisted metal.

"You okay?" Sam questions.

Dean nods, swallowing back the bile in his throat.

* * *

They're on hour three when Sam starts to notice something going on with his brother. He gave him a dose of Dramamine to cool off the effects of motion sickness; they were supposed to make him drowsy to hopefully help the trip run smoothly. However, Dean has been wide awake and alert this entire time. He's listening to Sam's iPod and silently panicking. Sweat is forming on his hairline and beginning to drench the collar of the brunette's sweatshirt.

Dean has had his head on his brother's shoulder for the entire trip so far. He's been keeping himself busy between rocking out internally to Metallica and trying extremely hard not to vomit all over the place. He really wants to get the hell off the flying tube of death. His skin feels too tight, his head is killing him, and his stomach does flip-flops every time he breathes. Not to mention, he feels drugged. His eyes are still swollen. He's just tired of it.

Nausea begins to rumble in his stomach, and he grips on to it tightly, catching Sam's attention. He can't quite hear what his brother is saying through the sound of his pulse vibrating in his ears. Vomit rises up and out of his esophagus; an ocean tide of red and orange erupts from his body. The act singes and burns his throat and leaves him utterly breathless. He's a sweating, quivering, and exhausted mess. The puke is also covering his jeans, which isn't okay with him either.

"Shit," Sam mutters. The flight attendants rush and swarm around Dean, who has resorted to acting not at all like himself. He actually physically really does bury himself into Sam's chest in broad daylight with people watching him. Sam swears to God that he could blow a gasket right now. This literally can't be happening, especially not to his overly macho brother. The ladies begin to clean up the mess on the floor, and one of them tells Sam that they can move seats.

Sam's eternally grateful to move a few aisles up. He gathers their belongings and his ill brother, who is hanging on tightly to his stomach and whatever meals are left in his shocked system. Sam, since no one is around them because of the stench of throw up, shucks off the blond's soiled jeans and replaces them with a pair of black sweats that are far too big for him. Dean whimpers and places himself on top of Sam's lap. Sam can't help but still be appalled.

The younger Winchester plays with Dean's hair until he falls asleep.

* * *

On hour seven, Sam's sure the same thing is bound to happen again. His brother is a shivering mess. His nose is bright red, and the purple bags underneath his bloodshot eyes are becoming larger with each passing second. Dean's feverish and struggling, and Sam feels like he can't do anything about it. They're however many thousands of feet in the air, and he's completely ready to back out on this idea. By the time they make it to Paris, Dean will probably be sick.

In order to help alleviate whatever shittiness his brother is feeling, Sam opens up his laptop and plays a movie. Dean shifts and squirms and watches the film from the corner of his eye. Sam notes that his nerves are shot, and Dean's swallowing like there's something that's trying to come up. Before it happens, he grabs the basin the flight attendants left. It's no bigger than a hospital's basin they give to their patients with the stomach flu; Sam isn't sure it will contain all of it.

Dean heaves up nothing more than a ton of yellow phlegm.

Sam is sort of relieved.

He wants Dean to just feel better. That's it. He tried to make it easier for him, but Dean's fear of planes has truly pushed him over the edge, so much so that Sam isn't sure what to do with himself either. He wants to be there like his brother's been there all those other countless times before. His older brother would do anything and everything for him; he would go to the end of the earth if it meant Sam would stop crying or being sick or throwing fits.

"Tell me about when I was a kid," he says.

Dean looks at him like he's lost his damn mind. "What?"

Sam nods and presses forward. "Tell me a story. C'mon, you've gotta have some."

Dean smiles. "Um, okay... Uh, when you were about one, I dropped you on the head. It was an honest to God accident. You just kinda rolled out of my arms. I was only five, and you had conked your head pretty hard, but Dad wasn't back. I held you all night. I crawled into bed with you and wrapped my arms around you and promised I would never hurt you again. It's actually part of the reason why I think you've got brain damage today."

The younger Winchester just chuckles. "Another one," he says.

"When you were eleven _and a half_, you still believed in the Easter Bunny..."

* * *

The last two hours of the flight go by quickly. Dean's spent the time reliving his childhood by telling Sam all sorts of tales about forts they used to make, how they trashed the Impala once when Dad was asleep, how Mom used to tuck them in each and every night. Sam never realized how much more his brother had to say because, let's be honest, he never opens up for more than two seconds at a time. Sam hasn't seen him smile this much in a long time.

By the time they arrive in Paris, though, Dean's beyond exhausted. He can barely keep his head from tilting to the sides and up and down or his eyes open on the ride to the motel. Sam's just as wiped out, but he drives anyway to cut his brother some slack. They bundle themselves in their room, and Sam lets Dean have the first shower again. He's nearly asleep on his bed by the time he comes out, still looking wilted and wild and wrecked.

The second Sam exits the shower and dresses in his pajamas, he crawls into Dean's bed and spoons him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, lenail125! Thank you guys for your requests, reviews, and for reading! =)


	34. Zyanya (II)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you guys so much for your support! I love reading your reviews and requests! =)

Zyanya requested: "Dean is alone and feverish (maybe suffering some sort of infection), and the nightmares are getting the best of him." Since there was no time frame specified and I haven't written a Stanford-era one-shot yet, I've decided to set this one while Sam's away for college. I feel like it's the only true time Dean has ever been alone with his brother in school and his father letting him hunt solo. Hopefully, this works out well.

I'm sorry that this one is a bit shorter than the others. I am headed back to my dorm, which is four hours away, and I wanted to post something really badly. I enjoy writing these every single day and posting daily; I just didn't want to miss out because I was leaving. It's usually better for me to publish chapters a bit earlier in the day anyway so I'm not terribly busy later on. My goal is to not miss a day until the requests have stopped coming in and I'm done with the series.

Like I said, I apologize for it being on the short side, Zyanya. =)

Dean is 24, and (for references) Sam is 20.

* * *

Zyanya (II)

* * *

_May 24, 2003_

It's warm in Wyoming. Dean knows because he's been outside to the Impala a few times. He lets the sun soak into his permanently freezing skin, and he relishes the heat that he can feel for the first time in days. The blond would just sit out there on the hood of his baby, but he's too run down to deal with people staring in the motel parking lot. He actually kind of wishes Dad was here. Maybe then he could kick this thing, whatever it is, in the ass.

His right arm is held tightly to his chest by a sling. It's a crazy contraption that straps in across his back. He knows he could have handled the bullet wound on its own, but, after four days of continuously shaking and vomiting, he opted to go to the emergency room. Now, he's on a heavy dose of antibiotics from the infection and was diagnosed with a broken collarbone, leaving him virtually useless since it's his dominant arm for the next six weeks.

Dean's tried to call his dad. John Winchester never answers the phone, so he isn't sure why he bothered in the first place. He guesses it's because he's, dare he think it, lonely. With both his father and brother gone, he isn't exactly used to being by himself. When they're both here, Dean has two people to take care of, make sure are fed and well, and just simply talk to. He wonders every single day how Sam is, but his brother won't answer his phone calls.

Sam hasn't spoken to him in over a year. Dean keeps the same phone number, even though he's broken about five of them from hunting ruthlessly during these past fourteen months, praying for at least a phone call. Even if it were only a few seconds long, Dean would love to hear his brother's voice. It's been way too long. Part of the older Winchester's mind doubts Sam misses him in the first place; he's probably thrilled to be out of hunting for good.

The blond collapses on to his bed and pulls the comforter around his aching body. His nose is running, and he wants nothing more than to stop feeling so alone. God, he's acting like a whiny teenager, but, at the same time, he doesn't really care. His injured arm is throbbing. His cheeks are burning. His fingers are cold. He stares up at the ceiling just long enough to remember hearing his mother's screams nearly twenty years ago.

* * *

_It's winter and snowing. Sam's cuddled up next to him in the back seat of the Impala, resting his head on his shoulder. He's snuggled beneath the old Army blanket they keep in the trunk in case of emergencies. If one could call having his little brother dropped into a lake during a blizzard an emergency, which, to Dean, it is. Sam's probably going to end up with the flu or pneumonia or possibly something even worse. He wants to rip that demon's fucking lungs out._

_But his vengeance isn't going to help his brother at all. _

"_D-D-D'n," Sam stammers._

"_Yeah, buddy?"_

"_C-Cold. F-Feel...tir-tired."_

_Dean nods and begins to rub his hand up and down the brunette's arms, trying to spread the warmth. Sam is practically naked beneath the blanket because Dean knows from personal experience that sitting in wet clothes for hours on end just makes everything worse. They're trapped here until morning when it's at least light enough for the older Winchester to somehow dig the car out of over a foot of snow. He'll do whatever he has to do to help Sam, though._

"_Better?" Dean questions._

_The blond shifts to where he can see Sam's face. There's blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth, and he's not breathing. Shit shit shit. He's not breathing. Dean pushes his brother on to his back and positions himself to where he's on top of him, plugging his nose and pushing on his chest to do CPR. Sam doesn't budge. His lips are starting to turn blue. His face was once bright red and is now progressively losing color._

_Fuck. What the hell is he supposed to do? Sam needs an ambulance. Now. It doesn't matter how anything happens or occurs at this point. Sam needs to be in a safe, warm environment. They have no supplies, no food, no water, and, for Christ's sake, they only have one blanket. Dean punches his brother's chest rapidly, hunching over and letting tears fall down his cheeks and on to Sam's bare chest. Shit. What is he going to do now?_

"_Sam! Sammy!" Dean screams, shaking his brother's shoulders violently. "Son of a bitch! Wake up, Sam!"_

_His little brother's eyes pop open. _

_Only they're not his brother's eyes._

_They're yellow._

* * *

Dean bolts awake, quivering and panting heavily. His shoulder is on fire, and he's sweating crazily through his t-shirt. His mind immediately floats to thinking about his brother, cold and dead and having yellow eyes. It was just a nightmare. Just a fever dream. Dean grabs his inhaler off the nightstand and puffs the medicine into his mouth, his lungs filling with sweet relief. His heart pounding wickedly, and he wishes desperately to feel better.

Without really thinking about what he's doing, Dean pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and dials.

"You've reached Sam Winchester. I can't come to the phone right now. Leave me a message, and I'll get back to you."

Dean nearly presses the end call button, but he takes a deep breath. "Uh...heya, Sammy. I uh...I was just callin' to see how you were doin', little bro. I hope everything's going okay at school. Listen, um, I know we don't talk anymore, but I wantcha to know that I'm always here if you need me. I, um, just kinda miss you and wanted to make sure you're okay. Anyway, have a good day, dude. I love you, Sammy," he says quickly and almost inaudibly before hanging up the phone.

Tears spill over his flushed cheeks. Dean begins to rock back and forth on the bed, burying his head in his knees, nearly screaming when he jars his injured arm. _Please call me back, Sam. Please._ He doesn't want to really acknowledge that he just _hurts._ He misses his brother so much that it's almost like he's useless and can't go on without him. The constant nightmares, the fevers, and the being ill nearly everyday is taking a toll on him.

_Please, Sam_.

* * *

_May 24, 2003 – Palo Alto, California _

"See ya later, Sam!" Jake shouts, giving the younger Winchester a quick high-five before leaving.

"Alright. See ya, man."

Sam jogs up the stairs to his dorm room. Evan, his roommate, is still in class, so he gets the room, more specifically the TV, all to himself for a few hours. It's their last week of classes and between finals, his job at the coffee shop on campus, and studying incessantly, he's exhausted. He's had these dark purple bags beneath his eyes for the last two weeks and is starting to come down with a sucky ass cold on top of everything else. He sniffles, flops down on his bed, clicks on the TV, and toes off his shoes, folding his hands behind his head.

He's asleep when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

Through bleary eyes, he makes out that he has a voicemail from about two hours ago.

"Uh...heya, Sammy. I uh...I was just callin' to see how you were doin', little bro. I hope everything's going okay at school. Listen, um, I know we don't talk anymore, but I wantcha to know that I'm always here if you need me. I, um, just kinda miss you and wanted to make sure you're okay. Anyway, have a good day, dude. I love you, Sammy."

Sam gulps and a sick feeling rises in the pit of his stomach. Dean sounds sick. Like really sick. And scared. He hasn't talked to him or his father in a little over a year. And, yes, he does feel terrible about it, but he also wanted Dean to take this opportunity to move on with his life. He spent so much time taking care of Sam as a kid and a teen that he never really had anything to hang his hat on other than following Dad's orders and watching out for him.

Without really thinking about what he's doing, Sam dials Dean's phone number.

There's an answer in a split-second.

"Hi, Sammy." Dean's voice is raspy and hoarse.

Sam rubs the back of his neck. "How're you, man? You sound terrible."

He can imagine Dean shrugging here. "'m fine. What about you? How's college life treatin' ya?"

"Everything's good, Dean. Really good. I actually have something I've been meaning to tell you."

"Which is...?"

Sam smiles. "I have a girlfriend. Her name's Jess."

There's a brief pause on the other end of the line. "Wow, my baby brother's got himself a girl. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Dean, are you sure you're okay?"

He hears a sigh and pictures Dean scrubbing his hands down his face. "Jus' a little tired and sore."

"What do you mean by that?" Dean is notorious for downplaying everything. He is well known for hiding broken bones, illnesses, and how he's honestly feeling. Emotions have never been his strong suit, and Sam wishes, more than anything, that his brother would tell him what's going on. "Are you hurt? Sick? Something's gotta be up."

Dean exhales loudly. "Kinda both. Broke my collarbone. The bullet hole got infected."

Sam's heart plummets into his stomach.

"Does Dad know?"

Dean huffs into the phone.

"Did you go to the hospital?"

"Yes, Mom. Anyway, enough about me. How're things? Beside your girlfriend?"

Just as Sam is opening his mouth to answer, Evan walks into the room, screaming and shouting to the younger Winchester about the new game he has to play. Dean goes completely silent, and Sam couldn't feel anymore terribly if he tried. He wants to talk to his brother; he honestly does. His life is busy, but he should make more time for the man who practically raised him at only the age of four. He learned how to rock his brother to sleep, for Christ's sake.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'll let you go. Love you, little brother."

Sam nods, tears swelling his eyes. "Yeah. Love you too."

Hot tears spill over his cheeks, and he wonders when the next time he'll hear from his brother will be.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Zyanya! Thanks for your reviews, requests, and for reading! =)


	35. ebonywarrior85 (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I really wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you all for favoriting, following, requesting, reviewing, and for reading! =)

I saw the picture Jared posted on Facebook and Twitter last night of him playing guitar and Shep holding down the strings. Shep looks so much like Gen! I think it's amazing and cool that Jared and Thomas look practically identical and that Shep and Gen are the same way. It's kind of like my sister and I, though. I look just like my dad (only a female version), and my sister looks just like my mom. I think JJ has a nice mixture of Jensen and Danneel and that Maison and West look like both Misha and Victoria. But, West does have that mischievous grin and glimmer in his eyes like Misha does.

Anyway, that's enough ranting from me today.

ebonywarrior85 requested: "Dean breaks his leg after a hunt, but Sam can't be there to take care of him because he has to take a case. He calls a friend to help take care of Dean: Charlie. And Dean is not too happy to see her at first. This timeline is season ten." Aw, poor Dean, especially since Sam can't take care of him. Sam is going to be in the beginning of this, and Charlie comes in in the second section, but she's the most dominant care-taker in this.

I am having Cas withdrawals...If anyone wants to request a fic with Cas in it, that would be great!

* * *

ebonywarrior85 (II)

* * *

_December 29, 2014_

It's three days before the dawn of 2015 when Dean breaks his leg and Sam practically abandons him. It's fractured in three places: slightly above the ankle, below the knee, and some magical land in the femur. The doctor says it will take probably eight weeks to heal and another two to four before he feels completely comfortable walking on his leg again. While Dean comes home later on that day after their obviously failed attempt at hunting a werewolf, Sam takes off.

"You'll be alright, Dean," his brother says. Dean just huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant toddler. He isn't thrilled to admit this, but he wants Sam to take care of him, just the like old days. Sam's been soulless, and he's been a demon, and, yet, they always have found ways to make sure each other is okay and well. He doesn't really want his brother to leave him here at all. How in the hell is he supposed to get around by himself?

Sam sits down on the side of the dark blond's bed, where he'll be spending a large portion of his time due to his incapacitation. He pats him on his uninjured leg; Dean flinches beneath the touch. He's, dare he say it, betrayed. Deep down, he knows and understands that Sam has to finish the hunt they started way earlier this morning. He doesn't want to leave him unattended in this state. Dean tells himself that it's family business. It's what they're meant to be doing, even if one of them is hurt or sick or whatever. Still, though, it feels wrong to Dean.

"What am I supposed to do?" Dean asks.

Sam eyes him almost suspiciously. "About what?"

Dean's eyebrows rise, and he motions down to his cast-covered leg.

"I've got that part covered. I wouldn't leave you here alone, dude."

"It's Cas, isn't it?" he questions, trying to hide his sort of excitement. He and Cas haven't hung out in a long time.

Sam shakes his head and chuckles. "Charlie. She'll be here in a few actually."

The older Winchester could face palm himself. He isn't exactly in the mood to be talked to crazily about TV shows and fandoms. He's also afraid that the Mark could spiral out of control, even though he's in too much agony currently to process hurting anyone. It's not that it's _him_ wanting to hurt others; sometimes, it just feels like it's a completely out of body experience. He doesn't even realize what he's doing until it's already over, and Sam panics.

He doesn't want Charlie to think he's a monster. She's kind of like a makeshift little sister in addition to his baby brother. She's in the middle between him and Sam, and it's like something he can't really place words on. It just feels right, is all he knows. He can't lose grip on reality again. Dean feels like the Mark is so powerful and wonders how he could stop it. He's Dean Winchester; he stopped the apocalypse. He can stop the damn Mark of Cain.

...Maybe.

Dean, despite never being that touchy-feely of a guy, grabs his brother's wrist, knowing he's about ready to return to the werewolf. He pulls him into a hug and basically refuses to let him squirm out of his hold. "Please be careful, Sammy," is all he says. Sam squeezes back, and Dean can tell his wheels are turning as he tries to figure out what in the hell has come over his older brother. The blond just doesn't want him to go and can't express it in words.

"Yeah, I will, Dean," he says, letting go and turn around on his heels. Once he gets to the door, he adds, "Stay off that leg."

Dean forces a smile and watches his brother leave.

* * *

He's half asleep when Charlie barges through his bedroom door without knocking. Dean practically jumps in bed, groaning out loud when the movement jars his badly broken leg. He bites his bottom lip and grumbles under his breath. Charlie's red curls are bouncing as she walks over to him, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tightly, as if she hasn't seen him in years. "It's just a broken leg," he says to her. "Not gonna die or anything."

Charlie slaps him playfully on the arm. "You need to be more careful."

"I think you mean that the asshat werewolf shouldn't chuck me fifty feet into a tree."

She laughs. "How'd Sam manage to get you out of that one?"

"I jumped. That's kinda how this happened," he says, motioning again to his leg.

"Oh, I thought you meant that it was already broken by the time you flew up the tree like a bird."

Dean shakes his head and then proceeds to scrubs his hands down his newly shaven face. He isn't sure when Sam will be back. They were in the end stages of the hunt, but it could be a week before he tracks down the stupid thing again. He winces internally. He isn't sure what his problem is. He's bitter at Sam for leaving him here, but he's also irritated that Charlie is here because he loses his loved independence. He hates broken legs.

"So, what's new, Deano?" she asks, flopping down next to him in his bed. Dean likes that about her; she's open, bubbly, sarcastic, and just does what she wants when she wants to. However, right now, he's annoyed. His head and leg hurts, and the spot on his right arm where the Mark is burns and stings every time he moves it. Dean just prays it isn't some kind of flare up. He can't deal with any of this right now, and he wants to sleep.

More than anything, though, he wants his brother.

He shrugs, finally responding. "Nothin' really."

"Not much of a talker today, are you?"

Dean, once again, shrugs.

"Okay, well how about I get you another pain pill and then we watch a little TV. Sound good?"

He nods. Any kind of pain pill would be marvelous to contrast the pain brewing beneath his white cast. Dean thinks forward for just a minute; his limp is going to be awful. How is he going to run? It'll be, like, weeks upon weeks before that could even happen. He gulps. He's going to be at the mercy of Charlie and his brother's help for at least eight weeks until the cast comes off. The doctor said that once it's removed, he'll probably still have to use crutches to get around long distances. Sam isn't going to let him do anything for most likely six months.

Dean is already almost asleep again when Charlie forces the pills down his throat.

She lies down in his bed with him, clicks on the television, and settles down with a little _Game of Thrones_ action.

"Goodnight, Dean," is the last thing he hears.

* * *

When he wakes up a few hours later, his vision is viciously blurry, and his leg is throbbing on top of the two pillows placed under it. He dry swallows three ibuprofen that are sitting on his nightstand and moans internally. He stretches out as best as his leg will allow him to, noting how freaking itchy it feels beneath the cast. He remembers when he broke his other leg a few years back; they stayed in Rufus's old cabin, and Sam was half-crazy from seeing Lucifer in his mind. But, the main point of that he hates how badly he has to scratch his leg.

He grabs the ruler Sam specifically left him for this reason, gets it under the cast, and goes to town. The scratchy, while it feels glorious and wonderful, pokes at his injured femur, which makes him more or less squirm in pain. He decides that it's best to stop, especially since he seems to be pushing a bit too hard. His lips are trembling, and he itches on top of the cast with his fingertips, imagining how great it would feel to be able to do that to his actual leg.

"Need some help there?" Charlie asks. Dean has no idea where she came from.

He shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good."

She rolls her eyes. "Quit being such a wuss. You gotta let me help."

Charlie grabs the ruler and, from the side of the bed, somehow manages to scratch under the cast without hurting him too badly. His leg is broken in three places; he knows it'll hurt no matter what. But, Charlie is much gentler and seems to have more patience with it than he does, which is a lifesaver. The pattern is soothing and comfortable. Dean sinks back down in bed and lets his head dip back against the cool pillow, grumbling when Charlie stops, and he falls back asleep.

* * *

_December 30, 2014_

The pain pills and antibiotics the doctor gave him have really been screwing up his sleeping schedule. He _never_ sleeps this much, not even when he's coughing up blood from pneumonia or throwing up every few seconds from the stomach flu. All the damn things do are knock him out and make him feel like he's dozing off for twelve years. Each time he wakes up is different than the last, and he wants his brother back, even though it's only been a day.

He's lying in Charlie's lap on the leather couch in the living room of the bunker. A green quilt is draped over him, and his left leg is snuggly supported by a few pillows. Charlie keeps running her hands through his hair, which just makes him even sleepier. Sam knows that that or rubbing his back helps him rest easier, but he doesn't dare let the redhead acknowledge that. He cuddles deeper into the memory foam pillow Sam recently bought him, feeling more comfortable and peacefully sleepy than he can ever recall in his years on this planet.

"Are you still awake?" Charlie asks.

Dean doesn't answer; he lets himself slide back into unconsciousness.

* * *

"Dinner's ready," Charlie says. She's sets up a folding table across his lap before sitting the soup down in front of him. Dean's leg is propped up on the coffee table for the time being so he can sit up and not spill food all over himself. The older Winchester watches her visibly flinch when he sneezes three times in a row, blowing bits of soup directly on to her. He mumbles an actually sincere "Sorry about that" to her. Dean sniffles and clears his throat.

"'m not sick," he says, picking up the spoon and blowing on his soup. "This is what you give sick people."

She snorts quietly and sits down next to him on the couch. "You sound like you're getting there, Deano."

He shakes his head. "Don't be like Sam," he counters playfully. "My brother would be all over my ass right now if I'd sneezed in front of him." He tries his best to hide the nasally tone to his voice. His nose is a bit stuffed up, his throat is slightly on the sore side (but just _slightly_), and he does keep sneezing. Still, though, he's not sick. He never gets sick, and he's certainly not going to admit anything remotely chick-flicky in front of a girl.

"What do you want to watch?" she asks, grabbing the remote.

He shrugs.

"Alrighty then. My show it is. But don't complain and say that I never gave you an option.

* * *

By ten at night, Dean's leg is pulsating, and his nose is completely clogged with snot. He hobbles back to his bedroom on crutches, having to practically force himself to move. He would have slept on the couch had he had the pain medication and his inhaler by him. They're in the other room, though, so that makes a trip there absolutely necessary. Plus, his bed is too comfortable to ignore when he feels like this anyway.

Charlie passed out in the middle of yet _another_ episode of _Game of Thrones._ He had to get up as silently as possible to avoid the wrath of the she-beast, who will undoubtedly lecture him about how he should be more careful with his injury. When he makes it to his room, he swings his right leg up on it and gently lifts up his left leg with weak and shaky hands. His eyes are already drooping closed by the time he takes his medication and blows his nose numerous times. He coughs harshly and runs his hands through his hair.

"What's wrong?"

Once again, he nearly jumps out of his skin. Tears swell up in his eyes, and he pushes them back where they belong.

"Jus' goin' to sleep," he says.

"You need more than that," Charlie says, ushering to the pain medication. She pulls out a bottle of NyQuil from his bathroom. "This should definitely help." Dean isn't sure if it's safe to do that, though. He already took meds that make him drowsy as shit and ibuprofen. Is it okay to take NyQuil on top of all that other stuff? Soon, he quits thinking about that and starts to focus on a good night's sleep. He really needs it, judging by his leg and whatever the hell is going on with his nose.

Once Dean is nice and drugged up, Charlie lies down next to him.

* * *

_December 31, 2014_

Dean misses Sam. He isn't sure why this time is so much worse than the others. It's the same kind of stabbing pain he used to feel when Sam was at Stanford and never called him. He feels like a complete and total baby, but he can't put his finger on why. He wants his brother to come back. It's not that Charlie isn't taking good care of him or anything. It's just not what he's used to. His brother does everything perfectly and knows exactly what to expect.

He blows his nose into a couple of tissues. Charlie informed him that he's starting to run a bit of a fever, which explains why he's freezing cold beneath three comforters outside. The redhead even helped dress him in Sam's black sweatpants (they're the only things that will go over his big, bulky cast) and pulled on a sweatshirt and oversized winter coat. He's wearing one of Sam's blue beanies. His leg is propped up on another lawn chair on top of more pillows.

Dean shivers violently, but relishes the heat coming off the fire Charlie set up on the roof. The woman is a pyromaniac, but that's okay. The fireworks haven't quite started yet, even though he's more than ready to watch some. He and Sam used to watch the New Years fireworks from whatever motel room they were staying in; one of them was usually sick and bundled exactly how Dean currently is right now. It just reminds him of his brother.

An explosion of color erupts off in the distance. The bunker is shielded off and anonymous to everyone in the world except them. Dean's face is warm, and he smiles when Charlie grins at him, wrapping her hand around his. They sit there, and, for once in a long time, Dean feels completely relaxed. He wishes it could be like this everyday. But, he wants Sam back in all of this. He hopes he'll be back tomorrow or maybe the next day.

But, for now, Dean's comfortable with this.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, ebonywarrior85! Thank you guys for reviewing, requested, and reading! =)


	36. Laura's-eyes (II)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the amazingly great television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you guys so much for your lovely reviews, requests, and for simply reading!

Laura's-eyes requested: "Was hoping you might write one about young Sam somehow being injured in the hospital and teen Dean being really bad with his asthma, but John is too worried at first about Sam to notice until Dean has a really bad attack and is admitted to the hospital as well. During this time, he and his dad really bond. John realized how precious his sons really are and how he sometimes takes Dean for granted." I love this prompt!

Dean is 15, and Sam is 11.

* * *

Laura's-eyes (II)

* * *

_August 1, 1994_

It's disgustingly hot the day Sam is hurdled into a headstone.

Dean carries him all the way to the Impala, ignoring his dad's pleads to let him do it. The blond is fifteen and stalky; he can handle carrying his hurt baby brother. Dad doesn't seem to think that highly of him, but Sam's unconscious, unresponsive, and is bleeding heavily from a wide-open gash on his forehead. The smaller of the two is his responsibility; he's Sam's caretaker and continues to lug him to the car, even though he's out of breath and clearly struggling.

By the time he lays Sam down in the backseat, Dad is cursing up a storm. Dean gulps and pushes past the bubbling nausea deep in the pit of his stomach. He's physically shaking with worry as he cradles his injured brother to his chest. He just wants Sam to be okay; that's it. It doesn't matter what it takes to get him back to working order. He will do anything, whether it's actually bathing him to reading to him like he used to when Sam was a baby to help him sleep.

Why did Dad have to drag them out here for a salt and burn? He swore he wouldn't take Sam hunting until he was twelve. He just turned eleven nearly three months ago. Last time he checked (and he's not that great at math), Sam still had nine months before hunting would be mandatory. Sure, he trains by running and shooting with Dean, but he's never actually_ hunted_ until today. Dean sighs, wanting to lecture Dad. But, he also realizes that he didn't expect this to happen.

According to Dad, this was just a routine salt and burn. It was supposed to be simple and easy enough for an eleven year old to help. Neither Sam nor Dean calls the shots; that's all their father. Dad said that it would take a few minutes and then they could go eat lunch somewhere cheap; he just had to get this done now as opposed to later. Dean wonders if things would have gone differently if they had waited until an hour or two later.

The blond covers his brother's bloody forehead with an old t-shirt.

His skin feels cold.

Dean, for once, prays that his brother will be alright.

* * *

Sam is the proud owner of a severe concussion, forty-four stitches, a shattered right ankle, and three broken ribs. His forehead was a gooey, bloody mess before the doctors stapled it shut and placed a long bandage across it. His ankle is sporting a lime green cast and is supported by fluffy pillows. His ribs are taped to where they're slightly more comfortable. Needless to say, the youngest Winchester is going to be in a shit ton of pain for the next few weeks.

Dad is filling out paperwork and answering a lot of questions about what the hell happened to this kid. Dean has been practically glued to his brother's side, refusing to leave the room or let go of his hand. He wishes the brunette were at least conscious so they could talk; it's the not knowing that drives him crazy. Does he have more brain damage than he already had? Is he going to be able to go to school? How can he help him feel better?

The older Winchester scrubs a hand down his face, the other one floating down toward his chest. It's tight, and he's already developing a bit of a sharp wheeze. This typically happens when he strains himself; he's especially vulnerable to attacks when he's stressed out. He hopes this isn't one of those sudden onset things his doctor always talks about. He's supposed to be careful, but that doesn't mean he shouldn't help his little brother when he's in danger.

"D'n?"

The fifteen year old immediately stands up and glances down at his newly awake brother. His face is a mar and mess of bruises, and he has a nasal cannula placed beneath his nose. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles brightly, happy to see that he's at least somewhat okay. "Heya, Sammy. How're you feeling?"

Sam shrugs. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"No. Not really."

"You were thrown into a tombstone by a jackass spirit."

Sam nods and glances around the room aimlessly. "Where's Dad?"

Dean motions backwards with his thumb. "Out there signing stuff."

The younger boy looks relieved. Dean watches him squirm uncomfortably and notices how pinched and tight his face is. He carefully sits down on the bed beside his uninjured foot and pats his knee. Sam looks close to tears, and he really doesn't want his baby brother to cry. He knows he's in quite a bit of pain and just wants to go home. Dean wishes he could do something to make him feel better, but he knows that he can't.

What a sucky big brother he is.

Dean grips at his chest, but still grins at his brother.

_Sammy's gonna be okay._

* * *

_August 2, 1994_

Dean is in the middle of packing up some of Sam's clothes when Dad knocks on the door. He's stuffing t-shirts and shorts for his little brother into their old duffle bag, not forgetting his toothbrush, toothpaste, or deodorant. Sam is going to be cooped up in the hospital for at least a week while they wait for his bones to heal a bit more and for his concussion to be moved from severe to moderate. He wishes he could come home today.

"How's it going?" Dad asks, leaning back on the door.

Dean stops what he's doing. "It's going okay, sir. I'm just grabbing Sam some stuff." He tries to hide how out of breath he feels. His chest seems to be three times the size of what his body can tolerate, and he wheezes loudly every few seconds. He knows that the asthma is nowhere near as big of a deal as Sam being hurt, and he certainly doesn't want to make himself more important. Sam's the one who's in trouble here, not him.

"Good. That's good. Listen, Deano, about the hunt-"

The blond shakes his head. "Dad, it wasn't your fault."

He's afraid that cutting his father off was a mistake; Dad doesn't like to be interrupted. Dean just prays that this instance will be forgiven, especially since he's telling him that none of this is his fault at all. Afterall, it's not like Dad planned on getting Sam hurt. He may not always be there directly when they need him, but he would never ever intentionally drag them into a situation where they will be hurt. He feels a bit more relieved when his dad smiles.

"You don't think so?"

Dean shakes his head and grins briefly. "No, sir."

His father nods. "Thanks, Dean."

* * *

Just before they're getting ready to leave to go see Sam at the hospital, Dean collapses. Dad comes running up to him and drops on his knees to help. The blond teen grips at his chest, struggling to simply _gasp_ for air. No no no no. This can't be happening. They're supposed to be with Sam right now, not here. Dean wishes asthma weren't a thing. He wishes he could be completely healthy in order to take care of Sam in the best way possible.

He feels Dad rubbing his back. His chest is tender to soft spots of his fingertips, and his throat is swelling shut. Hot, fiery tears spill over flushed cheeks, and he coughs violently to try to get some air flowing. Dad picks him up in one swift movement and ushers him as fast as he can to the Impala. Dean's head is spinning, and no air is making its way into his body. He's going to die. He's going to die right here in the backseat.

Dean doesn't even realize he's losing consciousness; it just happens.

* * *

He wakes up with an oxygen mask covering his mouth. The air is sweet, sweet relief to his lungs, but he feels extremely and incredibly weak. He can barely lift his arm to help remove the mask. He's warm and has a fuzzy sensation leaking throughout his body. It's welcoming, as opposed to being strangled to death by his own lungs. His chest is sore and achy, and his head is pounding relentlessly inside his skull, mimicking what he believes a rock show would be like.

"You really scared me, kiddo."

Dean glances next to him with blurry vision. Dad is sitting next to him in a chair, his hands folded in front of his face as he leans his chin on top of them. His eyes are misty and glistening with moisture. Was Dad crying or going to cry? Dean wonders what the hell is happening because he _has to be dying_ for John Winchester to ever show that kind of emotion. He goes to reach for the oxygen mask again, but Dad gently bats his hand away.

"You need to leave that on."

"Wha' happen'd?" He kind of understands what occurred, but he's not sure how he got here.

"You had a bad attack, Doctors said you could have gone into cardiac arrest if I hadn't gotten you here when I did. Don't ever do that to me again, buddy. You gotta start telling me when you feel this bad so I can help." Dean chokes back the tears swelling in the corners of his eyes. Dad _cares_ about him and Sam. Sometimes, he tends to forget. He isn't really angry or bitter about it; Dad's busy and obsessed and tends to not put them first.

He just kind of didn't know that his asthma _scared_ his father.

"'m sorry, sir," he says.

Dad shakes his head; tears stream down his face. "Don't be sorry, Deano. I'm the one who should be sorry."

* * *

_August 3, 1994_

Dean is half asleep when Sam rolls himself to the side of his bed, banging harshly on the rails with his hands. The eleven year old is smiling brightly and doing wheelies. At least he's getting his strength back. Between the physical therapy and getting plenty of meds and rest, Sam is heading down the right path toward recovery. He and Dean are being released from the hospital tomorrow, which is a good thing because the older Winchester can tell his brother is going crazy.

It's been a long twenty-four hours in here. Dean's more than ready to go back to their apartment near Dallas. He has spent the time undergoing breathing treatments, some sort of "lung tests," and getting his asthma medication changed to something a bit stronger. Dad's probably not happy about the expenses, but it's not like it's their actual money to begin with. Dad doesn't really like it when they spend money in general, so this has to be shocking.

"What're you boys up to?"

"Nothin', sir," Sam answers.

"Sammy, do you mind if I sit with your brother for a minute?"

The younger Winchester eyes Dean, and the older brother nods. "Yes, sir."

When Sam rolls out of the room, Dad sits down next to his son on the bed. Dean's still got a nasal cannula, IV, and numerous medications pumping through his system. He's still wearing a hospital gown, but at least he was allowed to put on pajama pants instead of freezing to death in just his boxers. He knows he's still pale and gross looking, which is why he thinks he's a little off his game with the female nurses this morning.

"Dean, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

"Dad, you've got nothin' to be sorry-"

"Please let me finish, son," Dad says. He proceeds when Dean nods politely at him. "I shouldn't have dragged Sam out there; he's too young. I know what age I told you he would be before I took him on his first hunt. I know how much you sacrifice in order to make sure that boy is safe, and I know I don't give you enough credit. I'm sorry, bud. I really am. I wish you two could have a normal life and go to one school and have your mother back. I didn't want this life for either of you, but think of it as our little family business if you want. And, one day, you'll be the boss of this business, and Sam will be just as a big of a pain as he is now... Anyway, what I'm trying to say here, Dean, is that I appreciate you. I appreciate everything you do for this family."

* * *

Dad spent all day in the hospital with him and Sam. They played Go Fish, Gin Rummy, and Dad even started to teach Sam the art of poker. By around nine that night, the younger Winchester had practically collapsed in his older brother's arms from exhaustion, nuzzling his head into his chest. Dean runs his hands through his hair and feels his heartbeat beneath his hospital gown. Dean wishes he could bottle these moments and save them forever.

"I love you, son," Dad whispers, kissing a passed out Sam lightly on the forehead. He leans over the side of the bed once more and does the same for Dean. "I'll be back in the morning to pick you two up to take you home." When Dad gets to the door, tears streak down the blond's flushed cheeks, and the heavy breathing returns. He doesn't want his dad to go. He wants to relive these days, even though he and his brother are hospitalized, over and over again.

"Hey, Dad," Dean calls quietly.

"Yes, bud?"

He gulps. "I love you too."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Laura's-eyes! Thank you all for requesting, reviewing, and reading! =)


	37. BamaBelle2012 (II)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, requested, favoriting, and following! =)

BamaBelle2012 requested: "Dean needs some kind of outpatient surgery, whether it be from knee surgery to back surgery. Meanwhile, Sam and Cas have to take care of a drugged and sore Dean in the bunker." I would write this one about wisdom teeth, but I'm not sure that's what the prompt calls for, so I'm going to do this about knee surgery. It really is hard to believe that there isn't more of this kind of stuff on the show considering how many injuries both boys have had!

This is set in season nine before Sam knows about Ezekiel.

* * *

BamaBelle2012 (II)

* * *

_January 30, 2014_

"Dean, it'll be okay," Sam says, squeezing his brother's arm reassuringly.

The older man shakes his head, his eyes wide. "What if they steal all my organs, Sammy?"

"The statistics of your organs being stolen during an operation are less than half a percent."

Both Winchesters roll their eyes at their newly human ex-angel friend. Dean's having this knee surgery today to correct whatever the hell twisting, popping, and breaking happened to it in Purgatory. Combined with the adjustment to eating and using his asthma medication once again, Dean's also had to deal with limping and excessive pain from his injury. This is the first free period they've had in a long time, especially with the trials and the angels falling and such.

"Alright, Mr. Van Halen. We're ready for you in the OR."

Dean grips on to Sam's hand, pleading with his eyes not to let him go. His older brother has always had this thing with hospitals. Ever since Sam was hurdled into a headstone when he was eleven, Dean's been pretty freaked out about them, which always struck the brunette as odd considering how much time they spend here. Dean's even had multiple surgeries in his life, but he's really weirding out over this one.

"Listen, dude. I promise that you'll be fine. Cas and I will wait for you to get out."

The dark blond nods, gulps, and lets go of Sam's hand. Cas and Sam wave as he's wheeled into the operating room, both with gloomy expressions written on their faces. Dean gets to leave moments after he regains consciousness since this is an outpatient procedure, but he's going to be practically immobile for a few weeks and will be heavily reliant on the two of them. Sam knows that Cas is more than willing to help his friend, which is a lifesaver.

All they have to do now is wait.

* * *

Dean's sobbing hysterically by the time he wakes up in the recovery unit of the hospital. The doctors say he's having an abnormal reaction to the anesthesia and that he'll be back to normal within the hour. Sam's not used to seeing his brother with tears streaming down his face and chest shaking so hard beneath his gown that he looks like he's having an asthma attack. His brother is normally so "big and bad" that crying is extremely rare.

"Don't cry, Dean," Cas says, using his thumb to wipe away some of his tears.

Sam smiles and watches as Dean latches on to the angel's red jacket, pulling him into the bed. The younger Winchester figures that would have been him cuddling Dean if he had gotten there a few seconds earlier. It isn't uncommon for him to seek comfort in familiarity after surgery or illnesses or whatever it may be, but this combined with the crying is throwing him for a loop. Cas lets the blond lay his head on his chest, and the sobbing dies down considerably.

This should be interesting.

* * *

Here's the thing: Dean's too wobbly for crutches. His nerves are rambled from anesthesia, and his mind is foggy from painkillers. He practically punched Sam in the face when he said he would have to maneuver around the bunker in a wheelchair for the first few days. Sam doesn't see the big deal; Dean'll be too clouded and exhausted from medication to really need to use it in the first place. It literally is only until he's more comfortable with moving.

Dean sees it as Sam intentionally taking away his independence. It isn't Sam's fault that all of this is happening. He just wants this issue to be corrected before his brother gets much older and it becomes a bigger issue. The reality of the situation is that Dean recently turned thirty-five. If he were to wait ten years, it may already be too late to fix his knee. It would most likely require more than one surgery and a lengthy hospital stay to accommodate the injury.

By the time they pull into the bunker's garage, Dean is fast asleep, his head tipped back and snoring quite loudly. Being stretched out in the backseat doesn't make getting him out any easier. Cas gets the wheelchair ready, while Sam works on pulling his brother out of the Impala as carefully as he can. Thankfully, he's out of it and completely unaware of what the hell is happening. Dean would bite his head off if he knew he basically had to carry him.

Sam knows that part of Dean actually _enjoys_ being babied to an extent. He likes his back being rubbed when he doesn't feel well and sleeps better when Sam's right next to him. However, they've never dealt with an outpatient procedure before. There's a difference between getting days or weeks to recuperate in a hospital setting versus being thrown immediately back into home life. The younger Winchester isn't sure how his older brother is going to handle this.

Cas helps Dean lie down on top of his memory foam mattress, fluffing up his newly operated on knee with pillows. He gently covers him up with the comforter; Dean snuggles his face into the softness and lets out a soft exhale. Moments later, snores fill the room. Cas and Sam exchange glances. The ex-angel clicks off the lamp and heads out of the room. Sam gives his brother one more glance over and follows him out into the hallway.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Cas asks.

Sam shrugs. "I hope so."

* * *

_January 31, 2014_

Yesterday was quiet. Dean slept all day after the surgery and only briefly woke up to swallow his pain medication. He sprawled out and stayed in that same position, which is the complete opposite of how he's behaving now. Today, Cas and Sam have to entertain him with movies, TV shows, music, and card games because Dean is refusing to use the wheelchair. He claims he doesn't need it and can work with the crutches instead.

The issue is that his hands shake with every movement, and his other leg is weak too.

"Dean, you need to chill out," Sam says, pushing his brother back down on to the couch.

"Yes, Dean. I believe 'chilling out' would be wise in this situation," Cas helps.

"You guys suck ass," Dean retorts, rubbing his aching knee carefully.

Cas's eyebrows rise. "I do not _suck ass_. I'm not quite sure if Sam does or not, but I know I don't."

The remark earns a laugh from Dean, who instantly curls in pain, and the patented Bitch Face #12 from Sam, who sits down next to the blond. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and notices that he flinches away from the touch, crossing his arms over his chest. Sam can tell he's pissy and not in the greatest mood, so he flicks on the television once again. Cas takes a seat next to Dean and lays his head on his shoulder; Sam guesses it's his own way of trying to comfort him.

"'m sleepy, guys," Dean mumbles.

"Go to sleep, Dean," Cas says. "We'll be here when you awaken."

* * *

Bathing is a tricky situation. It normally is after surgeries. When Sam was seventeen and had his burst appendix removed, taking a shower hurt like a bitch for the first day or two. He dreaded it. The water would run over his incision and smirk and burn. He remembered not wanting to take a shower after that first time in the hospital post procedure. Dean, even though Sam was reluctant, had to help him out because he was too exhausted and weak to stand on his own.

Cas and Sam help Dean, who is fighting a battle with the medication and ripe from sweating all day and night, into the bathtub. Sam's heart pounds in his chest when he notes his brother's face scrunching up in pain. He's extremely careful and gentle with the incisions and made sure he read the instructions about twenty times before they attempted this. He figured Dean would be getting uncomfortable sleeping in his own filth anyway.

Dean's head lolls to the corner of the tub, and his eyes flutter closed. Sam just continues to shampoo and wash his short hair and then moves on to lightly scrubbing his body. They've done this for each other, whether sick, injured, exhausted, or whatever it may be, so many times that it's not weird or awkward to them anymore. Cas volunteers to grab his friend new clothes, settling on a pair of Sam's pajama pants since they are loose and will give his knee a bit more room and the old maroon hoodie Sam had forgotten existed.

"Alright, Deano. Let's get you out of here," Sam says, beginning to hoist his wet brother up. Cas comes back to help get him out of the tub, and they sit him on the toilet seat. Sam dries the incision sight, puts more medicine on it, and rewraps it. His knee simply looks tender and is visibly swollen, so the younger Winchester opts to make it a bit on the looser side to alleviate some obvious discomfort.

The pair helps Dean into Sam's bedroom since it's closer, and Dean is falling asleep while using both of them as crutches. Cas climbs in after his friend is already lying in the bed, grabbing Dean and pulling him to where he's sprawled out across his chest. Sam snorts and chuckles before crawling in with them. He turns off the light on his nightstand. In the dark, his older brother grips at his hand and holds it tightly, even while sleeping.

* * *

_February 1, 2014_

"I don't need the damn wheelchair, Sammy!"

"The doctors said you need to rest your knee and that using a wheelchair will help to the fullest extent!"

"I feel like a grandpa. No way am I sittin' in that thing again."

"Well, guess what? You're going to be crippled and in a shit ton more pain when you _are_ a grandpa. Just get in the chair."

"No. You're going to make me do things."

"What in the hell could you possibly do? You can't even walk!"

"Exactly. All the reason why you'll try to take advantage of me."

"You're impossible. Fine. How about the kitchen? I think Cas bought pie."

"...Alright. I'll bite. But just this once."

* * *

_February 2, 2014_

"It's Groundhog Day, Cas."

"What is a 'groundhog'?"

"Not a biologist, dude. Some kinda animal or somethin'. He's supposed to tell us if we get an early spring or six more weeks of winter."

"Why would we want more snow? I've slipped four times today."

"You need more coordination."

"Yeah? Well, at least I can currently walk."

"I really friggin' wish you guys would stop saying that to me. 'm goin' crazy here!"

* * *

_February 3, 2014_

Before this, Dean was fast asleep beneath two comforters and an electric blanket in the middle of the afternoon Cas is snuggled into his stomach, snoring louder than Sam feels an ex-angel should. A few years back, Cas told Sam he and Dean "hare a more profound bond." Due to the fact that the smaller brunette hasn't dozed off in his own bed since his friend's surgery, he would say that that statement is pretty accurate. It's not like he doesn't like Cas or anything; he just knows he and Dean are close.

If he thinks about it, they survived Purgatory together. Even though the blond says that the angel took off and abandoned him, he still did everything in his power to get Cas to come with him back to Earth. When Sam was going demon on Ruby's blood, he answered Dean's prayers and questions and helped dissolve the nightmares his brother was having post-Hell. Sam understands why they're best friends; he truly does. But, no one can ever take away the title of Dean's Little Brother away from him.

Sam can tell his brother is exhausted, despite the fact that he's been sleeping more than he's been awake. It's these painkillers for the undoubted agony shredding through his knee and the antibiotics to make sure an infection doesn't develop. He's currently sitting at the kitchen table reading with his leg propped up on a chair on top of two pillows. Sam notes that his eyes droop closed every few seconds and then flutter back open in shock afterword.

Cas is sitting across from him, watching Netflix on their laptop. He's taken a particular liking to the show _How I Met Your Mother_ and basically binge watches it for hours on end when he's not taking care of Dean. Sam has been around for all of the new human's discoveries, and Cas honestly never fails to make him laugh when he nails a concept or messes something completely up. The ex-angel looks up at him when he sits down next to his brother.

"He's in a lot of pain," Cas says, taking out his headphones.

Sam nods. "I figured he would be. I want him to try to stay awake a bit longer, though."

"Why, S'mmy?" Dean joins.

"You need to build up some strength. We can't have you sleeping all day and night, dude."

"'m tired, though."

"I know, but you'll feel better this way."

Dean waves his hand and goes back to his book. Sam lightly rubs his brother's back for just a second; the older Winchester leans into the touch. When Sam stops, he frowns. Taking all of this in, the younger of the two gently wraps his arms around his shoulders, hoisting him up. He ignores Dean's protest and never ending stream of inquiries and practically drags him (gently) to the living room couch. He props his knee back up, lifts up his head, and cuddles in behind his brother, letting Dean be the little spoon for once.

"I thought you just said he shouldn't sleep?" Cas asks, coming up with the laptop in his hands.

Sam shrugs. "He'll be okay."

Truth be told, Sam just wanted his brother to cuddle with him without complaining incessantly about "no chick flick moments."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, BamaBelle2012! Thank you for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	38. I'm Adorable

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so very much for your positive feedback, requests, and for simply reading this!

What did you guys think about the new SPN episode last night?! While I did like last week's episode more, this one was still enjoyable to watch. I'm not too fond of Rowena and her storyline, but maybe I'll grow toward liking it. Sam and Dean are both still fighting to get the Mark off, and I think there is, as always, going to be a crazy battle at the end of the season. Possibly another sacrifice between the brothers relationship? I'm not sure of the direction the show is heading in with that, but I'm dying to see what happens!

I'm Adorable requested: "Can you maybe do one where Dean and Sam fight while hunting, and Dean ends up getting hurt trying to protect Sam, and Sam feels really bad about it and tries to help make it up to him?" Poor boys! I feel like this should honestly happen more often in the show (I love whump; don't judge!). It seems to be something that could _actually_ happen. It's no secret that Sam and Dean fight a lot, and it would only make sense for one of them to be injured while on a hunt, especially if the fight was a stupid one (which is definitely not this fight).

This is going to be set in season two.

Warning: There is some foul language in this one.

* * *

I'm Adorable

* * *

_November 2, 2006_

Twenty-three years.

It's been twenty-three years since Dean rescued him from that demon that killed their mother. Dad once told him that his older brother completely clammed up and shut down after her death; he wouldn't speak. It took _months_ to get him to utter a single syllable, which just so happened to be "Sam." He wonders why this has to to repeat every single year. Once November second rolls around, the older Winchester seems to forget what verbalization is.

And it really pisses him off. Sam first started noticing this trend when he was around six years old. Dean would _never_ talk on this day, not even let a peep exit out of his normally abrupt and rude pipes. As the years progressed on, Sam figured it would resolve itself. Losing a parent is hard; he gets that. He feels like losing a parent he never had the chance to know is harder in a different way. Sam never had the crusts cut off his PB&amp;J by his mother. She never sang him "Hey Jude" when he was falling asleep and never fed him tomato and rice soup when he was sick. Sure, Dean did all of those things, but it's different coming from his brother rather than his mother.

On every November second, Sam wants to scream his brother's ears off. Tell him how stupid this whole charade is. Nothing will _ever_ bring Mom back. Silence doesn't help anything; it just makes this entirely shitty day that much worse. He ignores the urge to punch him square in the face. Dean lost someone too, but at least he doesn't cuddle with the uncertainty and fear every night. Sam wants his mother back, but he isn't going to stop talking just because he's sad.

He wishes Dean would realize how much this hurts him. It's the worst day of the year; he doesn't want to feel alone in this. When his few November seconds came about in college, he went out with Jess (just thinking about her still hurts) or some of his buddies. They would drink coffee and talk about God knows what. No one knew about what had happened to Sam's mom, and it was kind of nice. But, Dean does know. He lived it. He remembers it.

To Sam, this kind of erratic behavior isn't fair. To either of them.

* * *

Sam is pecking away on their laptop. He glances over his brother every few seconds, double checking to see if he's still visibly breathing. Dean's sprawled out on his stomach on top of his newly made bed, snoring quietly. His arms are tucked beneath his pillow, one hand presumably clutching at his knife or gun, whatever is under there today. It's a little past five in the afternoon, Dean's asleep, and Sam's just waiting for him to wake up.

He already misses hearing the older man's snarky attitude and not-so witty comebacks. Dean's voice and presence in general has always been comforting to Sam. The blond Winchester used to read to him in massive quantities; the instant Dean learned how to read in school, the only thing he wanted to do is show Sam. The brunette took an immediate liking to the stories, the characters, the conflicts, and, more importantly, the sound of his brother talking.

When Sam and Dad used to fight, Dean would always take his little brother's side. Sam's sure he silently agreed with Dad on some occasions, but he would never admit that to him. He constantly reassured him that he's growing and moody and a teenager and that everything would work out for the best. Now, Mom and Dad are both dead, and both of them are a walking wreck waiting to spiral out of control. That's why Sam wishes Dean would just freaking _talk _to him.

He has this annoying asshole of a tendency to bottle everything up until it hits this epic explosion point. They fight, scream, bicker, banter, and hit each other until all of the old words come up in an eruption in anger. If Sam listens closely enough, there are events from a _decade_ ago sprouting up in the fluency of Dean's shouting. He holds it all in. And Sam fucking hates that. He can't stand it. It makes him want to push his older brother even further.

Sam is still pecking away on their laptop. He glances over at his brother every few seconds, double checking to see if he's still visibly breathing. Dean's back rises up and down, much like the emotions he tends to swipe away, like sliding open an iPhone. Sam rolls his eyes and angrily shuts the computer, huffing and puffing. He stands up and begins to pace around the room, silently hoping that the sound of his bare feet padding across the carpet will be enough to enlighten his sharpened sensitivity to things around him.

Dean lies completely still. His face is buried into the burnt orange comforter. The snoring stays the same volume. A hand is clutching a miscellaneous weapon. Sam inhales, and his tongue slams to the roof of his mouth. He wonders how in the hell they've came to this point. It's been twenty-three years, and Dean falls silent once a year. It's better than being permanently quiet. But it reminds Sam all too much about how deeply things, unknown things, affect his brother.

* * *

It's a rainy mess outside. Sam is sliding continuously in its slipperiness. The sludge clings to his boots, leaving a direct path to how both brothers go to this tombstone on the night of their mother's murder. Dean digs the hole, sniffling every few seconds in an attempt to get some of the water out of his nose. By the time he reaches the coffin, Sam's sure he's quivering from the wet cold. His cheeks are flushed, his nose is red, and his blond hair is dark and matted to his forehead.

"Done?" Sam asks, speaking a bit louder over the storm.

A simple nod is all he receives.

"Dean," he pleads. It's not the first time today. He needs to fucking talk already. He can't take another second, moment, minute, instance, or day of silence. He needs his brother back. And Sam can't bare to wait until November third. In reality, the upcoming day is closer than it appears as it is nearly six in the evening, but he can't do it. His heart is slamming into his chest, and his hands are shaking with anger and fury and resentment and hatred of this idiotic day.

Once again, there is no response.

"Dude, you gotta talk to me!" Sam shouts, dropping his shovel on to the ground and throwing his arms in frustration. "I...I can't do this anymore, man! Please, Dean." He watches his brother let the shovel slide out of his hands and collapse into the mud slowly. Dean looks off into the distance and still doesn't answer. "Quit being so selfish, and answer me!" he screams, hoping that it will earn him a bit more attention than he has been getting today.

The blond Winchester glares, his eyes narrowing in the rain.

No answer.

"Jesus Christ, Dean! You can't do this to me! Why do you do this every fucking year? It's not going to bring Mom back, and you know it! I-I can't even figure out why I bother to put up with you anymore! You leave your socks in the sink, and you never take care of yourself! And who has to deal with it? Me. It's _always_ me. I'm forced to clean up your messes and watch you deteriorate in front of my eyes. How do you think that makes me feel, Dean?"

Sam watches his older brother's head drip until it's facing toward the ground. He slides his boot around aimlessly in the mud. If it weren't for the rapid beating of his heart and the downpour outside, Sam wouldn't even be sure this moment is real. He shakes his own head and scrubs a hand down his soaking wet face. Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he breathes heavily, trying to calm himself down. He can't handle this.

It only takes a second for Sam to realize something is wrong. Very wrong.

And it takes even less time for both of them to be pushed into the mud by a pissed off spirit.

Sam tries to get up, but the dead and angry man is holding him down, foot atop his chest. He struggles beneath what feels like three thousand pounds, gripping on to the man's slacks and clawing at them. His heart is being squished beneath a rubber sole, and Sam can actually note that he's losing consciousness. The spirit lifts him up by his jacket collar just as he's getting ready to pass out from lack of breathing. He's dangling in mid-air.

His eyes are fluttering open and closed when he is suddenly dropped back into the ooze. He gasps for air, choking and sputtering and coughing, holding on to his chest. Through blurry vision, he sees the spirit flying after his brother, who is currently trying to toast the remains of this son of a bitch. Sam doesn't have the air or enough time to answer before the spirit picks him up and hurdles him off into the distance. Sam doesn't have the leg strength to pick himself up and run after his brother. Sam doesn't do anything at all except sit there in the mud with tears running down his cheeks.

The younger Winchester flinches and tries not pass out when he hears his brother's scream.

It's the first noise he's made all day.

* * *

Sam's nerves are going haywire. He can't sit still to save his life, and he's thrown up from panic four times now. Right now, he's kneeling before the throne, praying not only to quit puking, but for his brother to be okay. Dean's been in the ER for a long ass time now, and Sam can only fear the worst. He shakily flushes the toilet and stands on legs quivering like jelly. He rinses his mouth out, pops in a piece of gum to mask the stench, and wipes his runny nose on the back of his hand.

"Family of Dean Stark?"

It's the first thing Sam hears when he exits the bathroom. He's on pins and needles, as if his next few steps to the doctor are going to determine the state of his brother. Sam feels bad. So incredibly bad. He shouldn't have said what he said to him. He was pissed and hurt and angry, but that doesn't give him the right to belittle his remaining family member to this degree. Dean does _everything_ to make sure he's taken care of and safe, even though he's twenty-three.

"Is he okay, doctor?" Sam asks, not caring about the frantic nature of his inquiry.

"He's stable. He's got a fractured jaw that required to be wired shut, a broken arm, a few bruised ribs, and a pretty serious concussion. A few contusions and stitches, too. He's out of the woods, but we'd like to keep him overnight to make sure he doesn't take a turn for the worst. Any allergies we should know about?"

Sam shakes his head and swallows the vomit rising in his throat. "Just cats. Nothing that pertains to here."

_What have I done?_

* * *

When the doctors actually allow him to see Dean, he's freaking out. His insides are a trembling mess and just breathing is a struggle. He has to look away when he sees Dean hooked up to the heart monitor, the IVs, and an oxygen masked placed over his mouth. His face and uncasted arm are nothing but a mar of red, blue, and purple bruises. He basically has two black eyes, and his jaw is visibly and sickeningly swollen on his right side.

That fucking spirit really did a number on him.

But Sam wonders if what he did was worse.

The younger Winchester sits down next to his brother in a chair and grips his left hand tightly.

Dean does anything in his power to make sure he's okay.

And Sam's not going to stop until he's certain Dean feels the same.

* * *

_November 3, 2006_

It's dawn of November third. On every November third, Dean wakes up talking Sam's ear off. He'll talk about whatever he watched on TV yesterday and the hunt they went on. He'll talk about the weather if he has to. There's no mention of Mom; there never is and never will be. Sam's used to that part, to say the least. He can't force his brother to open up to him about twenty-three years of emotions. He's not sure he would be able to stomach the results, anyway.

On this November third, Dean is alarmingly pale and eerily silent. Having his jaw wired shut and his dominant arm shattered has put yet another stint in their communication. Dean is now rendered to being quiet for the next few weeks, and Sam's going to have to find some way to handle it. For right now, though, having him back in their crappy ass motel room is good enough. He settles the older Winchester into bed with plenty of pillows and blankets.

Sam hands Dean the remote and smiles when he turns it on to a mid-afternoon marathon of _Dr. Sexy, MD_. He can tell just by glancing him over that he's in a lot of pain. He squirms every few seconds, squints his eyes like he's got a headache, and pinches up his face. Sam takes his first opportunity to make his brother feel better by curling into bed with him. Normally, Dean feels more comfortable with "chick flick moments" when Sam initiates them.

Dean snuggles in closer, and Sam grins.

* * *

"How are you feeling?" Sam asks for probably the thousandth time.

Dean hands him the Sharpie to uncap and writes extremely sloppily with his left hand on yellow notepad that Sam has to hold up for him. Out of the two of them, Sam has always had the worst handwriting ever. It's surprising, really. He's the more studious and nerdy of the brothers, yet his right hand flat out refuses for anything to be written nicely. Don't get him wrong; neither of them have spectacular handwriting by any means, but what Dean's managing to scribble out on the paper is _far worse_ than what Sam could muster out on his worst days.

_Quit asking me that, bitch_.

It's hard, really hard, not to ask him that. If Sam could go back and reverse time, he never would have opened his big fat mouth. Dean can grieve in whatever way he wants. At least he's not drinking a whole bottle of whiskey or watching unimaginable amounts of porn or being a complete jackass to Sam. Why did he have to say anything? Sam sits down on his bed, eyes Dean some more, bites his nails nervously, and huffs loudly.

"Dean," he says, grabbing hold of his brother's attention. "I'm so sorry, man."

The older Winchester makes a face that reads "for what?"

"For what I said last night. I didn't mean it. It...It just frustrates me so much, you know? Every year, it's like I'm lose you. And it never fucking fails. I want us to talk and for you to open up at least every now and then, and I can't even get you to do that. What I'm trying to say is...that I know it hurts. I miss Mom everyday, man. I would do anything, _anything_ to bring her back. But she's gone, Dean. No amount of silence is going to help. It's...never mind."

Dean sits up and, even though he can't talk, commands Sam to go on with a wave of his hand.

Sam sighs. "I'm not trying to be a dick, and I get that I am. I wish me and you could be brothers on this. It's not that I'm saying you're not my brother; please don't think that. But every November second, I feel completely and totally alone. I know you do everything for me, and I know how much you've had to sacrifice for your pain in the ass little brother. I want you to _talk_ to me about how you're feeling. Bottling all of this up isn't healthy. I'm so sorry, dude. I get that I'm rambling and that I don't make any sense and that I'm being a bitch, but I'm sorry."

The blond Winchester tries to get up, but Sam gently forces him back down. If Dean could, he would probably be all over him right now. He doubts he is angry, but he can guarantee that some level of trust has been breached. And, if he could, he would trade places with his brother in a heartbeat. Instead, he grabs the Sharpie and notebook again. He watches Dean painstakingly scribble out a much longer message than the first one.

_None of this is your fault. I don't know why I do this every year, but I do. And it needs to stop. I'm so sorry for hurting you all these years. I love you, baby brother, and that will never change. _

Sam lets hot tears spill over his cheeks.

* * *

_November 4, 2006_

"So, what do you want today: tomato and rice or chicken noodle?" Sam questions, holding out the two options to his brother. Dean's groggy, sore, but seems more...stable today. The younger Winchester is entirely grateful for that. He smiles when Dean points at the tomato and rice; Sam figured it was a no brainer anyway. His brother isn't actually sick, but he may as well be with the state he's in. And Sam has vowed to do anything to make him feel better.

After Dean is fed through a straw on his new all liquid diet, Sam settles down next to him in bed. The shorter man shivers and fiddles with the comforter; the taller man helps and pulls it over his shoulders. This time, Sam picks the channel, and they end up on _Dr. Sexy, MD_ anyway because, no matter how little he's willing to admit, he knows he loves the show. Dean falls asleep somewhere in the episode, and Sam can't help but smile.

He finally feels like he got his brother back.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, I'm Adorable! Thank you for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	39. ebonywarrior85 (III)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for your reviews, requests, and for reading! =)

Does anyone else think the show should be moved back to Tuesday? Please do not get me wrong at all; I would watch SPN no matter what day or time it was on. I'm not talking about convenience to the viewers here. _iZombie_ took the show's timeslot, which statistically is a more viewed slot. Wednesday after _Arrow_ just seems odd to me since Wednesday at 9/8 central isn't the best or biggest slot there is. To me, SPN deserves the very best! I just feel the CW gave away SPN's time to a brand new show to get it started versus one that's been on for nearly ten years.

Speaking of ten years, the show's anniversary is steadily approaching! September 13, 2005, was the one of the best days ever because we got to meet our beloved Sam and Dean Winchester! The show actually premiered 4 days after my 10th birthday, so it's kind of neat. I'm turning 20 as SPN turns 10, and that's really cool to me! I want the show to go on forever because, let's be honest here, Jensen, Jared, and Misha only look _**better**_ with age!

Anyway, rant over. Sorry about my tangents, guys!

ebonywarrior85 requested: "Could you write one where Dean is sick with a fever, but he wants to hunt? Sam tells him he can't and has to take care of Dean. It could be any season, but I'm thinking season two." Season two is easily one of my favorite seasons! Seasons one and four would have to be at the top of the list because of how dynamic and crazily awesome they were! But, I do love every episode in seasons one through five.

I'm sorry about the semi-shortness of this one.

* * *

ebonywarrior85 (III)

* * *

_December 11, 2006_

They're at an old coffee shop when Dean sneezes five times in a row. The eruptions are powerful, unexpected, and surprisingly wet sounding. Dean just wipes his nose, sighs heavily, and takes a sip of his black coffee. Sam raises his eyebrows at him; that's really unusual. If it were spring and not nearly the start of winter, it would be fine. Both brothers are used to their struggles with hay fever yearly. Hell, he would venture to say he has worse allergies than his brother.

But sneezing like that in the middle of December is odd.

"Are you gonna eat that donut?" Sam asks, motioning to the sprinkled covered, gooey chocolate mess Dean would have normally devoured in three seconds flat. He's already had two himself, and, if his brother isn't going to do the honors, then he definitely will. Dean shrugs and slides the mini plate to Sam, who inhales the donut rapidly. It takes until the pastry is gone for the younger Winchester to notice the deep, dark smudges beneath his older brother's eyes.

He gulps and taps on the table with his fingertips, waiting for some kind of "fat ass" remark or a witty comeback. Nothing. Dean is reading the newspaper, swallowing harshly, and trying to hide his sniffles. This, compared to what they have dealt with lately, isn't all that weird, but it still worries Sam. He feels his heart thump in his chest harder and faster. He will know for sure if Dean's feeling under the weather in a few hours; he just has to wait for the signs.

* * *

They're driving through a virtually nonexistent town with a population of 278. Is the sign even worth it? This place is as desolate as the Sahara Desert. To add to the growing boredom nagging at the back of Sam's mind, it's snowing. There's fluffy white shit covering the roads, trees, and what few houses he sees. He tried to talk to his brother earlier, not about anything in particular, but still. Dean never really got the conversation rolling, so he dropped it.

Dean is behind the wheel and snuffling as quietly as he can muster every few seconds. Sam's had to take control of the steering when his sneezes get the best of him; he checks for a fever when his hand crashes into his to keep the Impala from flying off the road. He figured with how slow and lethargic his brother has been the past few days that this was coming. However, he knows the blond is _way_ too stubborn to admit his illness this early on.

"Maybe we should stop?" Sam suggests, breaking the silence.

Dean huffs and glances down at his watch and then back to the pavement. "No way. 's only four."

"I recognize that, Dean, but you're looking a little peaky there."

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes simultaneously. "Shut up."

Sam is wondering if this is the illness where he's incessantly cranky. Sometimes, if he's lucky, Dean complains about how bad he feels as opposed to turning into a jerk for days on end. His brother has been short with retorts and quieter than normal. Sam lets his head fall back on the headrest as he glares up at the ceiling of the car. This wouldn't honestly be that bad if Dean would pull over and rest for the night. Who knows, he may actually feel better in the morning instead of making his cold turn into the flu like he always manages to do.

"Dude, at least let me drive."

He isn't granted a response. Dean just slams on the gas harder.

* * *

They're five minutes from the motel. It's seven in the evening, and the prime hunting hours are coming up. Sam figures they will probably do some research about local hauntings and such before hitting the sack. Or at least that's what he wants them to do. Dean is looking more and more run down with each passing minute, and he needs to go to sleep badly. He's gone from just sniffling and sneezing to acquiring a hacking, nasty cough. A fever is a given.

"How're you feelin', man?" Sam questions.

"'m fine. Quit askin'."

Yep. Cranky.

Sam is devising a mental plan of action while Dean checks them in. A hot shower, comfy pajamas, NyQuil, a warm bottle of water to hang on to in bed, numerous boxes of tissues, and Gatorade should start them out. They carry their bags inside, and Sam motions to the shower with his hand wordlessly. Dean doesn't say anything either; instead, he lies down on his bed. It's his own silent way of telling his brother to can it.

Reluctantly, the younger Winchester showers first. The water feels glorious on his tense, sore muscles. Like he said, their past few days haven't been exactly easy. He thinks back to the night of rigorous salt and burns they've been on, one of which recently took place in ten-degree weather and a snowstorm. Dean refused to even borrow one of his beanies, put gloves on, or wear a hooded jacket; that's probably why he's ill now.

Sam dresses himself in a pair of grey sweatpants and a red long sleeved shirt. He towels off his head whilst heading back into the main area of the motel room. Dean is fast asleep on his back, snoring impressively through his muddled congestion. He shakes his head and pads over to him with bare feet, shaking his shoulder gently. When his eyes pop open, they are already nothing but a splash of red and pink. No white. How did this happen so fast?

"You need to shower, stinky."

"Bite me," Dean says quietly with no hint of anger or even sarcasm. He nearly topples over when he stands on his two visibly quivering legs. Dean coughs harshly and practically falls into Sam's chest; Sam wraps his arms around his trembling back, rubbing it lightly. His head starts to whirl and his mind is traveling a thousand miles a second when his brother, the big, bad, macho man, doesn't push him away. He even snuggles his head closer.

The younger Winchester takes this golden opportunity to drag the shorter man into the bathroom. Dean may be nearly twenty-eight years old, but they've done this for each other more times than either of them can count or remember. He helps remove his multiple layers of clothing, which just reveal to Sam that he's sicker than he's letting on, and gets him in the hot shower. Dean does the rest on his own because, to be honest, he's not _that kind_ of sick.

Plus, he would probably beat him into next week for shampooing his hair.

Sam grabs a pair of boxers, less stifling white socks, one of his green long sleeved shirts, and a pair of loose fitting sweatpants. These should be comfortable, warm, but not too much for him to sleep in. Both of them tend to sweat a lot when they aren't feeling well, so these should be better alternatives. Dean is wheezing and breathing heavily by the time he exits the shower. Sam notes that his face is now extremely flushed, and his nose is tinged red.

He watches Dean wrap the towel around his upper body to help some heat stick. Sam's turned the heater all the way up in the room. They haven't been here long, so it still could take a while for the temperature to get to a sick man's liking. The brunette helps the dark blond get dressed, lay down in bed, and carefully pulls the comforter over his most likely aching body. While Dean curls into a small ball, Sam doses him with NyQuil (he still isn't sure how he managed it with him lying down like that) and pulls out their rusty thermometer.

"Don't come near me with that thing," Dean rasps.

Sam shakes his head. "Humor me. I gotta see what we're dealing with."

The older Winchester rolls his eyes. He is probably thinking that he's not that ill, but the device beeps only moments later to reveal a nice 102.6 degrees. That's way more than a cold. Sam, even though he knows his brother is going to hate him for it, yanks the blankets off of him. Dean snuggles harder into the pillows and tries to cuddle himself, all while muttering about how big of a bitch Sam is being.

"You'll get them back soon, Dean. Here, how about this," Sam says. "We'll watch the new episode of _South Park_, you'll drink this Gatorade, and, if you're temps down a degree, I'll give the blankets back."

The older Winchester doesn't justify this ludicrous idea to him with words; he just turns on the TV.

* * *

_December 12, 2006_

"You can't hunt like this, dude!"

Sam winces as Dean barks into his t-shirt before dragging himself over to the makeshift kitchen table he's sitting at. He's exhausted, quivering, and sneezing what feels like once a minute, but, yet, he still wants to kill monsters. Dean's complexion has taken on a permanently pale feature, which he always finds weird because of how flushed his cheeks and bridge of his nose are. The tip of said nose is a shade of angry red, and his lips are chapped heavily.

Between his fluctuating temperature and the frigidness of the room, he didn't sleep last night. He fought Sam the entire night and refused to let his little brother sleep in the same bed as him, even though it was him that was initiating it first like he typically prefers. When Dean's sick, he craves physical contact, even though he will never say it. Sam understands and acknowledges this, and it's even more frustrating when Dean won't accept what he wants.

"'m fine, S'mmy!" he slurs. "Let's hit the road!"

"You can barely speak. Just shut up and go to sleep already."

"Aw, I like it when you're grumpy," Dean retorts, rolling his eyes.

Hey, this comeback is better than none at all; Sam will take it.

"Will you at least lie down for a while?"

"Will we leave after?"

"No." There's zero point in lying to him. "You need to get over this thing. You'll just make it worse."

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and practically coughs in Sam's face. The younger Winchester wipes the few drops of spit on his cheek, gets up, and grabs his brother's arm. He ignores his angry protests and pushes him into bed. He doesn't bother with medicine or the remote or a wet wash cloth. He forgoes his normal routine and simply _spoons_ his brother. Dean wriggles and struggles and attempts to maneuver out of being the little spoon.

It doesn't work because Sam just keeps holding him closer.

Eventually, the older Winchester snuggles his against his brother's chest.

Sam smiles when he hears Dean's congested breathing finally even out.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked this one, ebonywarrior85! Thank you for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	40. Zana Zira (II)

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the amazingly wonderfully great television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you guys very much for following, favoriting, reviewing, requesting, and reading! =)

Alright, so I have another story idea! I've decided not to write the other ones from a few chapters ago for different reasons, but I think I may have a plan after these are all written. It's another sick fic! Yay! Only this time, it's with a newly human Cas getting ill for his first time, and it contains Dean and Sam taking care of him whilst their relationship crumbles. It would be in season 9 where Cas is dying from his lack of grace, which makes his immune system sucky.

But, the one key event within this is still Dean and Sam's brotherhood. Sam said some pretty horrible stuff to Dean in 9x13 "The Purge," stuff that was hard for me to process after everything they've been through. So, this story would contain tons of angst, hurt/comfort, and basically all things that I personally love in SPN stories. And, since I love sick fics, don't be surprised if Dean and Sam get sick in this one too...I can't help myself!

So, do this sound like at least a halfway decent idea? I mean, I know the fic can't go on forever, but I'm sure I could squeeze quite a few chapters and words out of it. I just wanted to see if it sounded like something anyone would be interested in. I haven't seen really any fics that are like that on here, so I think it's a bit more unique. If you would, please let me know what you think! =)

I should probably return to what you all came here for.

Zana Zira requested: "How about Dean with breathing issues? It can be from anything: choking on the food he was eating, asthma attack that's too severe for an inhaler, etc. (option 1 is preferred, though). But either way, it would be cool if Sam is away and since there isn't enough time to call Sam or 911 for help, Cas somehow knows what to do and helps him out (maybe from seeing it on a medical show or something)." This one is going to be difficult, but I love challenges. So, I apologize in advance if it sucks assbutt.

This is set in season eight, but it does not fit in with the storylines of said season.

To amp it up a little bit and make it more of a serious matter, Dean's going to be sick here.

So, um yeah, there's filler at the beginning, but I swear the prompt is there!

* * *

Zana Zira (II)

* * *

_April 3, 2013_

"Cas, are these dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets?"

The angel glances down at the black plate somewhat nervously. "Yes. I toasted them myself."

Dean bites his lower lip and cautiously picks up a nugget, eyeing it suspiciously. He rips it open and notes that the meat inside is cooked and white and is as healthy looking as it can be. "Okay, fist off, you don't 'toast' chicken nuggets. Second, this is something you would feed to a preschooler. Need I remind you how old I-" He cuts himself off by coughing wetly into a tissue; his snot is still a pukey green. Why can't this just be over with already?

"You are thirty-four years, two months, ten days, four hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-nine...fifty seconds old."

"Holy shit, Cas. Just, next time, can you fix me somethin' that's a bit manlier, like a cheeseburger."

"Sam said you were not allowed cheeseburgers while he was away."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, Sam can shove it up his ass. I'm not friggin' four."

Cas sits down across from him in the bunker's old recliner, crossing his legs and folding his hands. He nods toward the plate of chicken nuggets in Dean's lap, motioning for him to dig in. Dean dips the meat cautiously in the ketchup he squirted out for him, takes a bite, and then decides that dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets aren't so bad afterall. His throat and stomach will only allow him to eat five before he sets the dish down on the coffee table.

"Has your stomach acquired a sense of satisfaction from your meal?"

The blond nods. "Um, yeah. Thanks, dude."

"Good. Let's get you to bed, then," Cas says as he starts to hoist Dean off the couch.

Dean pushes him away. "No way! It's only seven!"

"I am well aware of the time, but Sam says you must sleep a lot to get over illnesses."

The older Winchester knocks the angel off of him; he nearly topples to the floor. Sam said this; Sam said that. That's seriously all he's been hearing, and it's been less than twenty-four hours since his brother left to return to the hunt. He dropped him back off at the bunker yesterday night because he was a coughing, sneezing, and shivering mess. Honestly, the only way the brunette managed to get him back here is because he was exhausted and dead asleep in the passenger seat. If Sam had let him take his spot behind the wheel, he'd be side by side with him now.

"Cas, it's just me and you here. You don't have to listen to whatever mumbo jumbo Sam told you."

The angel shakes his head, his pensive look coming off in waves. "But Sam said-"

"Can it about my brother already! Jesus. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you two were shacking up."

Cas sits down next to the now sitting up Dean on the couch. Dean doesn't scoot away from his friend' touch because, well, he's sick, doesn't feel well, and doesn't care at this point. Normally, he would punch him into tomorrow from sitting that close (which would do nothing except probably shatter his hand), but he's alright with it for now. The angel returns his attention to the television, props his boot covered feet on the table, and lets his head fall back on the couch.

"What does 'shacking up' mean again?"

* * *

It's a few hours later when Dean awakens from his peaceful slumber. It's a few minutes before he realizes he dozed off on Cas's shoulder. The angel seems unaffected by it (as he seems with pretty much everything) and is still watching television. Dean yawns and removes his sticky face from the trench coat he _still_ hasn't taken off. He scrubs a shaky hand down his cheek. His teeth are chattering together viciously, and he's so tired.

"Cas," he mumbles weakly.

The angel glances over at him with an almost worried expression on his face. "Is it time for your medicine?"

Dean shrugs and pulls up his t-shirt to not only blow his nose but to cough into the collar. His face feels extremely hot, and his entire body is trembling with pain. He wraps his arms around himself. His eyes are drooping closed when he suddenly feels weightlessness overcome him. When he cracks open a sore eye, he notices that Cas is carrying him down the hall. He wants to quip with "hands off the merchandise," but he can't.

The short brunette sits him down on the toilet seat and begins to draw a bath. Dean must admit that he at least took pretty thorough instructions from his brother. Sam has his sick brother routine down pat by now, as does Dean, but he's surprised that a freaking angel who knows no movie or TV references and doesn't have a lick of common sense can do all of this for him. He doesn't let Cas help him strip down into just his boxers.

Unfortunately for the ill Winchester, the water hurts his aching body even more. His nose is pouring all over his chest, and he can't seem to stop coughing to save his life. He silently shampoos his hair; his arms are jelly and apparently visibly quivering. Cas gently pushes his hands back into the water to rinse them off and finishes doing the job for him. A warm, comfy, memory foam clad mattress is calling his name.

He dresses himself in a striped long sleeve shirt, black sweatpants, and wool socks, all of which he stole from Sam's room. When he lies down in bed, Cas is already there with a cup of NyQuil and a bottle of water in hand. By the time he takes the medicine, he's fighting a losing battle with sleep. The last thing he recalls is Cas lightly rubbing his forehead with his fingertips, sending him into a dreamless sleep, and whispering a "get some rest" to him.

* * *

_April 4, 2013_

"What're you watchin'?" Dean asks, lifting his heavy head up from the pillow. He fell asleep on Cas's lap for, like, the fifth time today. It's not even three in the afternoon yet, and he's completely done with it all. His fever spiked at an ungodly hour this morning, and he's been a mess since. Sam would have kicked his ass into bed and told him to leave period. He likes Cas being here with him because at least then he gets to watch TV to get rid of some boredom.

Cas runs a comforting hand through his sweaty hair. "I believe his name is _Dr. Sexy_."

Dean nods. And then his stomach audibly growls.

"Do you require nutritional substances to alleviate your hunger pains?"

He can't help but rolls his eyes and sort of smile. "Yeah. But make it a burger this time!"

Cas doesn't respond. Hell, he doesn't even move from his position on the couch. Dean doesn't even blink, and there's a bag of fast food in his lap. It's from his favorite burger joint up in Connecticut. Their burgers are so juicy and tough and amazing, and, uh, he could practically orgasm just thinking about them. He doesn't hesitate pulling the food out of the bag. See, he always knew there were perks to having an angel as a best friend.

"Mmm...ah, yeah...Mmm..."

He's nearly done with the burger when a piece of meat lodges in his throat. At first, he tries to just wiggle it out, but he quickly realizes he can't swallow. Shit. He grips at his esophagus, trying to use his fingers to see if he can massage it out using his fingertips. It's like the worst asthma attack of his life (Christmas 2002) doubled over. Only, this time it wasn't a chest stabbing pain, it was the "oh shit, I'm gonna keel over" pain.

Cas immediately starts to shake him, but he can feel himself beginning to lose consciousness and gag on the burger. There's a big freaking asshole of a wad clenched in there, and no amount of patting on his back is doing any justice. He tries to sputter like he can when he's having an attack, but literally no air is being moved. His face feels hot and flushed and red and blue. His lips tingle and feel frozen. One shaky hand grips at his throat, the other at his chest.

He's going to die. He's going to die right here. He doesn't even get to say goodbye to Sam.

"You have calm down, Dean," Cas says.

_Yeah fucking right_.

And then he's being lifted up into a standing position. His knees can barely support his weight, and his vision is dancing all over the place. He feels...weird. Like conscious and unconscious at the exact same time. _What should I do? Should I be doing something? Please don't let me die. I can't die here. _Tears are streaking down his face like a leaky hose. But, then, suddenly, there's a pressure on his chest. A big one too. What the hell?

Cas wraps his arms around his midsection and begins to forcefully push. Each one hurts more than the last, but, finally and miraculously, the hunk of soggy burger flies out of his mouth and lands across the room. Dean drops to his knees beside the couch, grasping on to his t-shirt and still breathing abnormally heavy. Cas shoves his inhaler into his mouth violently, presses down on the canister, and allows the ill Winchester to get some much needed air into his system.

Dean leans his head on the back of the couch with his eyes closed. He's inhaling and exhaling through his mouth rapidly. His face is nothing but a mess of snot and tears. His lip is bleeding a bit on to his white t-shirt from biting it so hard. Dean shakily reaches for Cas's hand and pats it gently, blearing up at him through watery eyes. The angel sinks down on to the floor next to him and puts his arm around his trembling shoulders.

The blond leans in closer until his head is on his shoulder. His throat is killing him, like little shards of glass are stuck in there each time he swallows. But he can breathe. Thank freaking Castiel, he can breathe. Tears are still flowing openly as he takes moments to suck in the stale bunker air. He's entirely exhausted, but he can't seem to shake whatever is happening. Cas pulls the blanket from earlier over him, even though he's wearing warm pajamas.

Before he knows it, he's asleep on the floor, head against Cas's leg.

* * *

_April 5, 2013_

Dean has effectively surrounded himself in a mountain of snotty tissues. He is sitting at the breakfast nook in the kitchen, head cradled in his folded arms. He isn't wearing anything besides a soiled long sleeved shirt and boxers. The early April sun hurts his eyes. His throat is on fire from his little choking scenario yesterday, and his stomach is really starting to become irritatingly hungry. Where the hell is Cas when he needs him anyway?

"Yes, Dean?"

Dean jumps and then scrubs a hand down his stubbly face. "Jesus," he whispers.

"Are you alright?"

He nods. "Could you, um, maybe fix me somethin' to eat? I'd do it myself, but I'd probably just get snot in it."

"What do you have in mind?"

The blond shrugs. "Pancakes?"

And, just like yesterday prior to the fiasco, a container from his favorite pancake house in Washington appears on the table. Dean digs in, this time taking small, controlled bites and chewing extremely carefully. He does not want a repeat performance of yesterday. But his stomach is growling so much that enjoying the meal is hard at a slower pace. Cas rubs his back briefly and then takes a seat next to him.

"How are you feeling today?"

Another shrug. "Fine, I guess."

"You still have an elevated temperature, and your sinuses seem to be bothering you."

"Being sick'll do that to ya."

Cas nods, but doesn't say anything else.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"How'd you, uh, know how to do that yesterday?"

"Oh, I simply learned that from _Dr. Sexy_. Ellen choked on an apple core, and do not ask me how she managed to do so, but then Romeo gave her the 'Heimlich,' whatever that is."

Dean smiles briefly, puts down the syrup covered fork, and looks directly at Cas. "Thank you. I mean that. If you weren't here, I woulda been a goner."

The angel nods. "You are welcome."

There's a slight silence before Cas speaks again.

"What's a 'goner?' I feel as though I should know what that means."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope I did okay on this, Zana Zira! Thank you all for reviewing, requesting, and reading! =)


	41. Zana Zira (III)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazingly great television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you guys for reviewing, requesting, following, favoriting, and reading! =)

Zana Zira requested: "Dean nearly drowning in icy water and needing to be revived. He could just fall through the ice, or maybe the monster they were hunting lives in water, and it grabbed him while he was jumping in between it and Sammy and held him under? Anyway, that part's up to you. But I'd love to see Dean getting saved and then being cold, shaky, and cuddly while he's seeking warmth afterward." Aw! This is such a cute prompt! Snuggly, cold Dean is my favorite!

This is set in season three.

I'm sorry about the semi-shortness of this one.

* * *

Zana Zira (III)

* * *

_January 20, 2008_

It's so cold that Sam's sure his nose is going to fall off straight into the snow they've been trudging through for the past hour. Though, he's not entirely focused on _just_ that. Dean's deal is coming due in about three and a half months, and his brother is still acting entirely indifferent to the entire situation, like bringing Sam back to life when he was dead as a doornail and sacrificing himself (again) is how it's supposed to be. Sam doesn't think it's fair.

He gets that he's mimicking a snot-nosed brat by moaning internally about how life sucks. Once Dean goes to Hell, he'll be alone. He'll have to figure something out for himself without his brother. When Sam was at Stanford, he made new friends, had an actual job at a coffee shop, and experienced what normal life felt like. Knowing Dean was out there was comforting, especially since he didn't see him much. But knowing Dean is going to die...he can't do it.

Sam's been trying. He really has. He doesn't want to seem like a bitch and whine to Dean about how much he'll miss him. He also doesn't want to be angry with his brother during his final months left on Earth. In a way, he wants to go about their hunting as if nothing is wrong. There's a key issue here, though. Sam's not Dean; he doesn't cope with things, even if they are small, well, and he certainly won't be able to forget that he once had a brother.

They're coming up on the lake where the Kappa sightings are being reported. A blue-ish yellow, scaly monster has been drowning victims for the past three days, despite the fact that it's January and snowing and the water should be frozen. Sam's honestly a bit perplexed by this one, and that takes a lot considering the nature of their jobs. Sure, if it were summer and the Kappa was attacking, that would make since. But, not here, and not now.

It's an easier hunt than expecting, however, since a bullet between the eyes kills it dead. Sam figures it shouldn't take long, which is a plus. His nose is pouring into his mouth, and he has to keep wiping it away with his coat. It wouldn't surprise him if either of them were sick after this. It's around that time of year, anyway. It's also around the time of his brother's twenty-ninth and _last_ birthday ever. Sam swallows a growing lump in his throat.

"Ready to do this?" Dean asks, his voice quieter than normal. His eyes are a bit sullen, and he almost looks a little misty eyed. It's like maybe the Winchester brothers are connected in some way, and he's feeling what Sam's feeling right now. Suddenly, Sam gets the urge to hug his brother and drag him far away from this place. They should spend time doing things they love, like watching movies or going to bars or eating at local fast food diners.

But he doesn't do that. He nods instead. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."

The first things they have to do is pick at the edges of the ice and throw rocks on top of the lake. Nothing fancy or ritualistic, really. It's a simple creature with bad habits of drowning and body mutilation. This captures the Kappa's attention, and that's exactly what they need in order to be able to find it. Sam's done the research, and this lake is about five hundred feet deep. He doesn't like the water all that much, and the thought of being drowned instead of shot, stabbed, exorcized, or executed in pretty much any other way scares the shit out of him.

Dean is poking at the edges with a pickaxe while Sam throws the stones. They continuously do this, but there's no sight of the Kappa. Sam's right arm is becoming loose and sore, and he can tell that Dean's is too since the picking it becoming slower and slower with each crack of the ice. The younger Winchester rolls his eyes and huffs loudly, watching his visible breath evaporate into the late night sky. He hates hunts like these; there's so much uncertainty.

Finally, there's movement beneath the water. Sam and Dean eye each other, nod, and pull out their guns. They move shoulder to shoulder as they hear it getting closer to where they're standing. In this case, being together is good since it's heading in their direction. He's ready to shoot this damn thing between the eyes and go back to the nice, warm hotel room, where he'll take a hot shower and fall asleep; Dean's impending death normally haunts him there too.

"Sam, move!" he hears Dean's voice bellow.

He must have zoned out for a second. Before he fully comprehends what in the hell is happening, he's being pushed face first into at least eight inches of snow. He pushes himself up on shaky elbows, spitting the white powder out of his mouth. His cheeks are freezing now, and he's pretty sure he has snow in his thermals. Just great. He stands up, wiping it from his jeans, coat, and even dusting off his beanie. Did he hear a gunshot or no? Sam can't remember.

"Dean!" he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth.

His brother is nowhere to be seen.

Panic bubbles up and builds inside Sam's core. He screams his brother's name over and over again until he notices movement in the water. In order to gain the Kappa's attention once more, the younger Winchester begins to chuck rocks at the water furiously. The ice has been broken near the edge where that damn thing came toward them. The child-like face of the monster emerges with an unconscious Dean in between its teeth.

Sam shoots it straight between the eyes.

He steps into the shallow section of the lake and hoists his limp brother into his arms. Dean's bleeding heavily down the side of his face, and his lip is busted open. Deep purple bags line beneath his closed eyes, and he's alarmingly pale and grey. He's soaking wet, and, even though he was knocked out, shivering violently. Sam runs. He knows he's got at least a mile of trekking through the snow before they'll reach the Impala.

Dean is normally hard to carry when he's unconscious; Sam knows from prior experiences. But, a sopping wet Dean is ten times worse. Instead of his usual one hundred and seventy pound brother, he has this around two hundred something weight on his arms. Sam is huffing and puffing and worried and scared shitless. His cheeks are heating up, and he's panting heavily. He has to get Dean warm. Now. Before it's too late to revive him.

"Stay with me, Deano," he whispers.

It takes a freakishly long time to get back to the car. Sam's upper body is exhausted and quivering harshly. He practically tosses Dean into the backseat. His first order of business is to get these dripping clothes off of his brother. He removes the beanie he let him borrow, coat, several under layers, jeans, thermals, underwear, and socks. Sam grabs a pair of his own boxers and socks from the trunk. He tugs at Dad's leather coat and somehow gets his unconscious brother inside it.

Sam throws the old army blanket over his brother's unconscious form. He realizes he doesn't have much time to warm him up and how hard that's going to be, especially if he doesn't wake up soon. Sam opts to drive in the wet state he's in. Afterall, Dean's situation is crucial and much more vital than his is. While driving back to the motel, he hears stirring in the backseat. When he checks his rearview mirror, his brother's eyes pop open.

He's so relieved he could actually cry.

"Dean, hey, calm down," he says. "I'll get you warmed up in no time."

The fifteen minute ride back feels like an eternity. Dean's trembling so hard that it's shaking the entire Impala. Sam watches him curl in on himself in the back. He'll have to get him in the bath, stitch up those wounds, check for a concussion, and just make his brother feel better. The longer they're in here with Dean shivering to death, the harder the recovery process will be. The second Sam pulls into the parking spot by their door, he grabs Dean and gets him inside.

Thankfully, he left the heat cranking full blast for a reason. He figured they would both be tired, cold, and sore after this hunt. Sam strips his brother completely once again, turns the shower on as hot as it will go, and lets his brother sink down to the floor. The warm water will at least warm him up a little. While Dean struggles between staying awake and sleeping, Sam sets up the queen bed they'll be sharing tonight, tucking their portable heating pad beneath his brother's side. He then proceeds to change into new warm and dry clothes himself.

Dean is snoring when he pulls him out of the shower. Sam taps his cheek lightly, realizing how bruised he's going to be in the morning. Dean's already fifty shades of grey and purple. The gash in his hairline is still oozing blood, as well as his lip. He must have bit it pretty freaking hard. He isn't sure how he manages to dress his brother in another set of thermals, sweatpants, and a hoodie, but he does it anyway with his brother dozing off on his shoulder.

Sam gets him settled into bed on his back and begins tying off each individual stitch. It doesn't take that long, especially since his brother, who typically fights him every step of the way, is asleep. The cut in his hairline is was decently big and needed nearly twenty stitches; his lip only needed three. Since Dean is struggling with staying awake so much, Sam goes against his better judgment and forgoes medicine. The brunette snuggles up next to the blond, pulls him close, and smiles brightly when he begins to snore quietly into his chest.

* * *

_January 21, 2008_

When Dean regains coherency for the first time since being nearly drowned, he throws up nearly a pound of lake water that's mixed with blood and some yellow crap. Sam doesn't even have to check for a fever. The younger Winchester gives him NyQuil, Tylenol, and the antibiotics in their kit, even though they're for strep throat; he figures they can't hurt anything more than it already is. After that, he clicks off the motel room lights and heads back to bed.

Sam's not tired, but Dean is still exhausted, shivering, and spasming beneath the comforter. In the middle of the night, the brunette actually had to grab the blankets from the other bed and tuck them in around his brother. At this point in time, he will do anything to make him feel better. He knows they'll be stuck in this mess for probably the next week, especially since Dean's already at the stage where he's throwing up and cuddling. It's not exactly a good sign to Sam.

The younger Winchester cradles his older brother against his chest, rubbing his hands up and down his back gently and letting him cuddle into him again. Dean seems to tremble less in his sleep when he holds him tightly. Sam's always ran a bit on the warmer side, which is why, even when Dean was sick as a kid, he would allow for Sam to snuggle with him since he's a "portable heater." Of course, the younger of the two had to initiate it, but, hey, if it works, don't screw with it.

For the first time in days, Sam feels better. He knows that this sucks ass and that he'll have to struggle with an incredibly sick and cold brother for a week, but he's still alive. In a few months, Sam won't be able to say that much. If he could freeze time or simply relive this next week over and over again, he would do it in a heartbeat. Because having his brother around is better than the latter. Sam smiles when Dean grips his shirt with his fist.

He, more than anything, loves his pain in the ass big brother.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Zana Zira! Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	42. Guest (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderful television show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you guys so very much for reviewing, requesting, and for simply reading! =)

Quick question for those who read this: I was requested to write a Jared and Jensen fic that involves Jensen being ill and Jared helping him. I realize that it's obviously not sick Dean, but I thought the overall prompt was interesting because I _**love**_ our boys to pieces. However, I do have some hesitations about writing it. A few are their personalities, not really wanting to make up facts or reactions, and how you guys feel about it. It would definitely be different, and I'm not sure if it is against the rules for this website. I'm not sure about it, but I will write it if someone is interested as well.

So, long story short, would you any of you be interested in reading this request, or would it be too weird?

Also, I would just like to remind those of you who are still requesting that I **don't** write slash pieces. No Wincest, no Destiel, nothing like that.

Guest requested: "One of the side effects of getting a concussion can be unprovoked crying fits, so maybe something like that, and Sam eventually figures it out and is all freaked out but comforting. I like seasons two through five the best. Season four might be a good fit for this one?" Aw, poor Dean! I happen to love this prompt and have been patiently waiting to write it since the first time I read it weeks ago. Thanks, Guest! =)

This is set in early season four (before Sam gets completely dickish) between 4x1 and 4x2.

* * *

Guest (II)

* * *

_September 23, 2008_

Dean's been back for five days.

And, while Sam knows what he's been up to is wrong, he still doesn't want to give it up. He feels so...powerful and alive. For the entire time his brother was in Hell, this is what he looked forward to. Because there was nothing else more important to him than getting him back. He's still at the slightly freaking out stage because he has no idea who this Castiel is and what he wants from them, but he doesn't care. Seeing a freshly showered and clean-shaven Dean is all he needs.

It is a weird feeling to have his brother on Earth again. He can't begin to imagine what Hell was like, and, even though he has numerous questions, pushing Dean right now would result in a punch to the face and the silent treatment for days on end. Sam's pestering could lead to trust issues, and he really doesn't want that. So, if he has to hold back the inquiries, he will. Right now, he's so incredibly happy to have his big brother back that he can lay off.

Sam is no longer used to sharing motel rooms. He's been squatting in abandoned houses since Dean ventured downstairs after his end of the deal was fulfilled. Sure, Ruby comes over, and they have sex every now and then, but he is _definitely_ never telling his brother that one. At this current point, he feels like Dean is massively holding back and doesn't truly believe he doesn't remember anything, which is why his support and being there means a lot.

The younger Winchester figures Dean may just be reverting back to his old ways in always wanting to care for and protect his little brother. Despite Sam being three and a half inches taller and weighing more, Dean _has_ to be the big brother. He's four years older and that much "cooler," according to Dean. There's always been something deeper about how much he's willing to do in order to make sure Sam is safe, even said instance means he sacrifices himself.

"Ya havin' a senior moment there, squirt?" Dean asks.

Sam snaps back into reality. His brother is throwing on a white and blue flannel over his grey long sleeved shirt, despite the fact that it's nearly eighty degrees outside right now. The younger Winchester sits up in bed, lets the comforter slide off his poorly rested body, and runs a quick hand through his hair before standing. He wants to hug his brother and just let him know he's there, but, like he said, there's that whole punch him into next week thing standing in his way.

The brunette grabs an outfit for the day and heads into the bathroom, glancing at Dean brushing his teeth over the kitchen sink before clicking the door closed. He's sporting these incredibly nasty looking bruises and cuts on his hands and knuckles, and there are dark bags beneath his eyes. While Sam has been sort of sleeping since his return (mainly just three or four hours on and off), he isn't sure his older brother has been sleeping at all.

He is grateful that this motel water is warm and doesn't have yellow and/or black sludge erupting from the pipes. The hotness of the liquid soothes his aching muscles. He rotates his shoulders, pops his neck and back, and exits a few minutes later. Sam throws on a random t-shirt he grabbed from his duffel, jeans that are so worn and faded that they're breaking out in tiny holes, and socks. He doesn't bother to brush or comb his hair; his hand does the job just as well.

Sam leaves the bathroom right in time to see his brother sigh heavily and drink yet another shot of whisky.

* * *

"Can I get a cheeseburger with no onion or mayo with a side of cheese fries?"

The waitress nods. "And for you, sir?"

Sam glances back down at the menu again. "Uh, I'll just take the chicken caeser salad."

She nods once again and leaves the two brothers to sip nonchalantly on their Cokes and research. Dean is holding his head up with his right hand and shuffling through the newspaper, and Sam is browsing the Internet for new hunts. They're both itching for another hunt, especially since the older Winchester has yet to go on one yet (other than finding that Castiel, which he doesn't count). Sam winces as his brother yawns so viciously his jaw pops.

"Do you wanna just go relax for the night?" he asks. "We could watch a movie or something?"

Dean shakes his head and eyes him like he's got food between his teeth. "What? Are you serious?"

"Well, yeah, Dean. You look exhausted."

The blond waves his hand and rolls his eyes. "'m fine, Sam. Just drop it."

Sam tries to reason with his panicking mind, stating that he really is okay, and he needs to leave it alone. Dean will talk when he's ready...Who is he kidding? This is Dean Winchester here; he never tells anyone what's bothering him until he's at a devastating explosion point. It's the one thing the younger of the two hates about the older. Dean is so quick to sacrifice, but he doesn't realize what it's doing to himself and the people around him, specifically Sam.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Restless spirit a few towns over," Dean says, sliding him the newspaper article.

* * *

It's a little past nine at night, and a chilly breeze encircles Sam's body. He opts for a jacket this time instead of walking around in a plain t-shirt like he has all day. Dean's wearing his black leather jacket; Sam wonders if he's coming down with something because of how cold he's been acting. There are no other typical signs, though, which he guesses is a plus. Maybe it's a post Hell thing? Of course, he can't be sure because Dean says he doesn't remember.

Which, by the way, he now doesn't believe at all.

Dean has hidden how he feels ever since he was four years old. He never let Dad know he was sick, even if it was painfully obvious. Sam at nine learned to just shove Tylenol into his system and deal with the grouchiness that ensued when he didn't feel well. He lets things boil to a certain point and then all comes up and out and destroys everything in its path. He and Sam walk a bit further into the graveyard and start scanning for the name Jackson Albright.

Jackson Albright's ghost has been haunting females at the gym. Clearly, his brother would think this is the best case ever because all he saw in the article was "female" and "gym." He probably just imagines boobs flopping all over the place while they are running. They start to dig up the grave, Sam glancing nervously at his brother every few seconds. It's weird; he seems like he's in a fragile state of mind right now, which is why his heart is thudding loudly in his chest.

The air around them suddenly becomes ice cold. Sam can actually see every breath he and Dean take. Goosebumps form on his arms, and he bites his lip when he watches his brother's face lose all color. "Dean!" he screams as the blond is unexpectedly hurdled hundreds of yards away. All he hears is a loud thud-like cracking sound. Shit. The younger Winchester quickly lights this thing on fire since the job was almost finished anyway.

He watches the spirit disappear and immediately sprints to his brother. Dammit. Dean is in an unconscious heap next to a tombstone. He's bleeding heavily from a gash on his forehead. A large nearly black bruise is already forming. His face is ghost white. Sam carefully carries him bridal style back to the car, gently trying not to jar his head too much. Dean's eyes flutter open somewhere along the way; Sam knows instantly that he has a concussion due to the glazed over expression he's already wearing. It's probably a bad one, too.

Sam bundles his brother into the backseat and makes the hour and a half drive back to the motel.

* * *

"Seein' stars, S'mmy..." Dean croaks out, leaning his head on Sam's shoulder as they struggle to get inside the motel room.

"Yeah, I bet you are, buddy," Sam says. He ever so gently sits Dean down on the bed and begins to remove his clothing, except for his long sleeved shir, boxers, and socks figuring he'd get cold at some point during the night. The bruise on his forehead that dips into his hairline is a nasty one, but the concussion seems to be a moderate one. So far, his brother has yet to vomit, fall over from dizziness, or forget who he is.

Like he said, it _seems_ to be moderate, but Dean's always been the one to surprise him.

The blond has curled in on himself beneath the motel comforter, burying his face in the pillow. Sam somehow gets him to take some Tylenol, places an makeshift ice pack on the back of his neck since he's now readjusted himself to lie flat on his stomach. The younger Winchester turns out all of the lights except for the lamp by their living room area table, carefully sits down on the bed next to his brother, and slowly rubs his back until he hears snores.

* * *

_September 24, 2008_

It's almost three in the morning when Sam wakes up to the sound of retching. He wants nothing more than to toss a pillow back over his head and fall back to sleep. It takes what seems like minutes for him to remember Dean has a concussion. Shit. Double shit. Sam throws the covers off of him and practically sprints into the bathroom, not bothering to knock. If the older Winchester can fight him about privacy, then he will be fine soon.

But there are no protests because his brother is vomiting violently into the rusty toilet bowl. Chunks of light yellow phlegm splatter on the seat and dribble down his chin on to his grey shirt. Sam cringes and drops beside Dean, rubbing his back as he heaves up all of the food he's consumed since being back (which was a scary amount, even for him). That's when he notices the tears. Big, fat ones streaming down flushed cheeks.

Dean is a quivering mess. He's sobbing audibly and puking up only stringy shit that Sam can barely look at. Once his brother looks like he's done, he immediately turns around and collapses his face into Sam's chest. "Whoa, Dean..." he whispers, wrapping his arms around him and running a hand through his hair continuously. His cries, however, don't die down; the younger Winchester himself feels like he's going to be sick now.

He's never seen his brother like this. Bobby told him how torn up he was when Sam had been stabbed by Jake and died in his arms, but he never once mentioned crying. When Dean sold his soul for only a year versus ten years to revive him, he doubts he was crying then, either. Sure, he's seen him tear up before, but never openly sob like this. This is...frightening. Dean normally puts up such a massive façade that Sam sometimes forgets he isn't invincible.

The bruise on the blond's face is massive, his forehead is swollen from impact and several stitches, and Sam knows his head must be killing him. He tries to maneuver away to stand; Dean needs meds and rest. But, Dean basically holds him hostage by gripping on to his shirt and folding himself over Sam's lap. The cries grow softer and turn into whimpers as the Winchester brothers sit on a dirty ass motel room floor, Sam holding on tightly.

* * *

When Dean is asleep, the cries stop. The instant he wakes up, though, they start right back up full force. Sam keeps trying to make him drink water because his lips are so chapped that they're peeling and bleeding all over his white t-shirt. Dean refuses the chapstick and licks his lips clean. While his brother was passed out like a light, Sam researched concussions and different symptoms. Normally if it's bad, he's lightheaded, dizzy, headachy, and vomiting.

He discovered that crying jags can be associated with severe concussions, which is now what Sam bumps up the head trauma to be. While it explains the uncontrollable crying, there is still a mystery. The sobbing is usually triggered by something. Stress, illness, lack of sleep, whatever it may be. Stress and lack of sleep could honestly be it, but Sam doubts it. His brother has only been back from Hell for six days. He's sure it's associated with that.

But, he's not going to ask. Dean doesn't need that right now. What he does need, however, is for Sam to be there in a way he's not used to. Dean is perfectly able to take care of himself at least physically (well, sometimes) when he's not this messed up. But, for the moment, Sam is going to be the best little brother and caretaker the older Winchester could imagine. He starts with cuddling him for dear life; Dean doesn't push him away.

He actually settles closer, leaning his head on his brother's heater of a chest and sighing contently. Sam places a cold washcloth over the back of his back, which should at least sooth a bit of the headache. Dean is still crying, quivering, and trembling violently beneath his touch. Sam moves the comforter up over his shoulders and rubs his back lightly, noting that his muscles relax more and more with each circular movement.

"Shh, Dean...It's okay. You can sleep."

Dean's incessant sobbing and hiccupping eventually stops.

Sam wipes away the tears with his thumb and snuggles his brother closer.

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**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Guest! Thank you for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	43. Averystorm (II)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you guys so very much for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! =)

Averystorm requested: "How about Dean with food poisoning? Sam actually ends up getting Dean to eat a salad for once, but then poor Dean ends up getting food poisoning from tainted dressing or tomatoes or something. Sam then has to take care of Dean while listening to Dean tell him that 'I told you rabbit food was dangerous' and swearing he'll never touch another vegetable in his life. I'd like it set in either season 9 before Sam finds out about Ezekiel or in season 10 shortly after Dean is cured from being a demon. It could even be in season 8 if you want; I just want Dean sick in the bunker so he has that memory foam mattress to sleep on, haha."

I love this prompt! I shall set it in season 9 before Sam discovers Ezekiel is possessing him.

Rated T for one f-bomb.

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Averystorm (II)

* * *

_November 5, 2013_

Sam finds his brother sprawled out comfortably on his memory foam mattress. He's snoring quite loudly for it only being slightly past noon, and he has neglected to shave, shower, or even put pants on so far. He is flat on his belly with his shirt hiked up a bit in the back. His cheeks are a little on the flushed side, and his short hair is standing up in multiple directions. Sam notes his breathing is congested and labored. But that's not the most disturbing part of the equation.

Dean is surrounded by a sea of junk food. Doritos, Chips Ahoy, Peanut M&amp;Ms, donuts, popcorn, and God only knows what else has formed a tight cocoon around his brother. There's a smudge on his chin and around his lips from a white powdered donut, and his fingertips are stained orange, which means the comforter is ruined in the process. Sam scoffs, shakes his head, and is trying to find a way to cope with his disbelief and shock over this.

The craziest part of it all is that his brother hasn't been feeling well for days. He's barely left his bedroom, won't touch the soup Sam microwaves for him, refuses to get dressed, won't partake in research, and has used four and a half boxes of tissues. It's just a head cold, but this is completely abnormal behavior. Normally, regardless of the illness or affliction, the first thing that goes is Dean's insane appetite. Clearly _whatever the hell this is _is not typical.

He must be feeling better...

Sam shakes his brother's shoulder gently, grimacing in disgust when he sees that he's lying on top of yet another bag of chips. Cheetos. Gross. The younger Winchester is surprised that he hasn't found any vomit swimming in the bed with him. This is just freaking nasty, and Dean is so going to help him clean this mess up. His older brother's eyes groggily pop open to reveal that they're fever free, but entirely bloodshot to Hell.

"Wha'? 'm sleepin'," Dean complains. He throws the pillow back over his head and snuggles deeper into his mattress. This memory foam shit is the best thing to ever come into his life besides his brother. It provides the best sleep he's gotten in his lifetime, which isn't that hard to beat since he's lived in motel rooms up until a few months ago. Dean sniffles, coughs, and tries not to drool too much on his grey sheet. He rolls his eyes and eventually sits up all the way when Sam keeps pestering him by shaking his back. "What do you want, Sasquatch?"

Sam motions to the mess with his hands. "What the hell happened in here?"

Dean glances around through really blurry vision and looks at him rather oddly. "I got hungry. What's the big deal?"

"Well, for starters, you probably ingested, like, five thousand calories."

The older Winchester shrugs and leans back against the headboard. He grabs a few tissues off the nightstand and blows his overly stuffy nose into the wad. His hands are shaking, and he feels hot and cold at the same time, but, overall, it's much better than being as miserable as he has been. His midnight snack binge helped clear up his appetite...But he's a little hungry now. He wonders if Sam would go pick him up some apple pie and vanilla ice cream.

Maybe even blueberry. Mmm...That sounds good.

"You're nasty, man," Sam says, shaking his head.

* * *

By the time Sam returns from Walmart with a handful of sick brother supplies and a new slew of junk food for him to devour. He also got some "healthy junk," but Dean wouldn't be interested in that. But, Sam has a plan. He stopped at a local salad bar and prepared two to-go containers, one for him and one for Dean. Given his current head cold-ish and ill state and the destruction of their pantry last night, his brother is long due for a nutritional meal.

When he enters the bunker, he spots Dean lying beneath their electric blanket on the leather couch, curled in a tight ball. He's shaven, and his hair is still a bit on the damp side. A comically high pile of tissues litter the hardwood floor, and he is, once again, snoring heavily. Sam places his hand on his forehead; Dean's warm, but not alarmingly so. The older Winchester jumps, his breath getting caught in his throat. He sputters violently into his sweater collar.

"Get 'ny pie?" he mumbles, stretching out further on the sofa. Sam ignores him and sets down the collection of blue and white plastic bags on the table. He toes off his boots, hangs his coat over the wooden chair, and pads over to his brother with the salad containers in hand. Dean grabs at the Styrofoam excitedly, his eyes widening as he rubs his palm together. "You 'membered the pie, S'mmy," he says nasally. "Thanks, dude."

Sam ignores him and smiles brightly, chuckling.

When Dean flips the container open, his jaw drops. He looks kinda angry. "This isn't pie."

Sam nods. "You need to start eating healthier, especially since you're sick."

Dean shakes his head and sets the garbage down on the coffee table. "One: 'm not sick. Two: I don't eat _rabbit food._ Three: It's green, Sam. Green equals bad, and bad equals shit that Dean won't eat," he informs, referring to himself in the third person. Sam can't even hide his amusement with his brother, who is now poking at it with the plastic fork from a distance, jabbing at it suspiciously, like he's never once seen a salad before.

"Just try it. You never know; you might like it."

He scoffs. "Yeah right."

"It's either this or nothing else for the rest of the day."

Dean glares at him hardcore. "Thought I was the big brother?"

"Well, you denied that right when you consumed ten year's worth of sugar."

Reluctantly, the blond picks the Styrofoam back up and sets it in his lap. Before he takes a bite, he cleverly uses Sam's shoulder and flannel as a tissue, rubbing his drippy nose on to after he sneezes multiple times in a row. His eyes water, and he gives him a lopsided smile. When he munches down on the green leafy things lightly covered in Italian dressing, he must say that he's not entirely opposed to it. Combined with the bits of meat, it's not all that bad.

Sam grins boldly when his brother volunteers to take another bite.

* * *

Dean is in the middle of watching TV when his stomach starts to feel a bit crampy, like it's clenching and unclenching itself over and over again. He lifts up Sam's sweater and begins to lightly massage the area. Ever since he ate earlier, he feels off. Well, more off than already having a cold. Sam is flipping through a book in the recliner, glancing up ever so often to check out whatever's on TV; Dean wonders if he should tell him about how weird this is.

He pulls a Dean Winchester instead and tries to push past it.

It takes until the fifth episode in a row of _Shipping Wars_ for him to sit up, his stomach on fire and doing somersaults. Sam folds the recliner legs back, his eyes widening with how alarmingly pale his brother has just gone. "Uh, are you okay, dude?" he asks. The instant Sam begins to walk over to Dean, the older Winchester expels everything he has eaten in the past year violently all over his socks and jeans. It's like a freaking rainbow of colors and chunks.

Sam doesn't care about the mess. He immediately panics internally, but keeps his composure on the outside. There's no time for a bucket or to carry him to the toilet, and there certainly isn't time to change his clothes, even though he'll just be dragging the mess everywhere. As Sam is in the process of grabbing more tissues, his brother topples off the couch and nearly face first into the puddle of throw up. Dean is crying and gripping tightly on to his stomach.

The older Winchester is now coated in his own sickness, and Sam has no choice but to step in it with him. He sits down beside his kneeling brother, who is choking and gasping for air. Sam fiddles around for his inhaler in his sweatpants pockets and practically shoves it into his mouth. The upchucking has stopped for the moment. Dean is caked from head to toe, and Sam's jeans are ruined. The blond coughs, sniffles, and looks miserably at his brother.

Sam rubs his back as Dean lays his head on his shoulder.

"Do you think you're done for now?" he asks quietly.

His older brother nods. "Told'ya rabb't food was dangerous..."

"What?"

"The s'lad made me sick. Never happens with pie."

Sam rolls his eyes and hoists his brother up bridal style in his arms. The smell is the grossest part, but the chunks slipping and sliding between his fingers is nearly just as nasty. He strips him, turns the shower on, and basically shoves him in. Sam follows shortly after, needing to clean himself as well. It takes a while for him to realize that he didn't lay out any clothes for Dean, who is still shaking and shivering with exhaustion and illness.

"S'mmy..."

_Fuck._

Dean upheaves nothing more than stringy phlegm in the shower. Sam scoots over and rubs his bare back once again. He's trembling beneath his touch, burning up, and can't seem to calm down. In the midst of even vomiting harshly, Dean mumbles about how much he hates Sam for doing this to him. "I'm never going to touch another vegetable or listen to you again" is the gist of what he almost incoherently mutters over and over again.

"Done?" Sam asks once more.

Another nod. "Lettuce 's evil, S'm."

Sam nods and lets his brother's head dip toward his chest. "I know, buddy. Let's wash you up and get you tucked into bed."

The rest of their impromptu shower is uneventful. Dean is shaking too hard and is too miserable to do any of it himself, and Sam doesn't mind. Somewhere along the line, he stops speaking and lets Sam shampoo his hair and wash his body. He will barely detach from Sam long enough for the younger Winchester to properly clean himself. Once all is said and done, the brunette walks down the hall only wearing a towel around his waist to collect clothing.

He only throws on a random pair boxers since he still has to help a wet Dean out of the shower and gathers up warm stuff for his brother: a thermal long sleeved shirt, grey sweatpants, and warm socks. Dean is laying his head on the shower wall beneath the hot water, his arms wrapped around his stomach and shivering violently. Sam shuts off the water, hoists his brother up, dries him off, and changes him into the new outfit.

The walk down to Dean's bedroom seems like an eternity. Sam gives up and carries him all the way there about a fourth of the way through. He knows how much his brother _loves_ that damn memory foam mattress, and he would undoubtedly be most comfortable sleeping there. Once he drops him into bed, Dean curls up on himself after being tucked in. Sam places a washcloth on the back of his neck and snuggles up next to him, guilt creeping and swelling up on him.

* * *

_November 6, 2013_

Dean's stomach is visibly swollen from its several upheaves, a few of them more projectile than anything else. He hasn't gotten more than two hours of sleep at a time; Sam figures it's food poisoning from a part of the salad being tainted. Between his brother having a cold and throwing up violently nearly constantly, he can only imagine how exhausted he is. Currently, Dean is lying on his chest, remote in hand and sniffling incessantly.

Sam can hear his brother becoming more congested, so he passes him another tissue. Dean blows his nose harshly into it and snuggles back against him. He feels like shit rolled over three times. His entire torso is on fire and will probably be friggin' sore for a week. He's exhausted, can't get warm, and wants nothing more than to forget about the black trashcan on the ground waiting for him on the ground, but, thanks to Sam, that can't and won't happen.

"Are you hungry?"

Dean's stomach coils at the thought. "No."

"You need to eat and drink something. Dehydration will just make you feel worse."

"N'thanks," he mumbles, clicking the TV to another channel.

Sam wriggles out from beneath him. The movement jars his sensitive stomach, and he groans out loud. Sam apologizes and practically girly leaps into the kitchen. Shit. He isn't hungry whatsoever, and the smell or sight of food is bound to upset his belly even more. Dean hasn't thrown up in a good three hours, and he would like to keep it that way. So far, not even water will stay settled long enough for him to start the digestion process again.

His brother returns with a bowl of tomato and rice soup in his hands and a bottle of blue Gatorade tucked beneath his arm. He sets the food and drink on a portable over-the-lap tray Dean used a lot when he was ran down from the trials and didn't want to get up. "C'mon, man. Just a few bites."

Dean shakes his head. "That's what you said about the salad," he says nasally.

"I'm really sorry about that. I didn't think it would make you sick."

"Why didn't it happen to you?"

Sam shrugs. "Maybe it's 'cause I'm more of a man than you."

"Uh huh. In your dreams. No more lettuce?" Dean questions.

The younger Winchester shakes his head this time. "No more lettuce."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Averystorm! Thank you for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	44. MusicForMySoul

**Author's Note:** I do not own the amazingly brilliant television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters. I wish I did.

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Thank you guys so much for reading, reviewing, following, favoriting, and requesting! =)

I watched Misha's live stream yesterday! Did anyone else see it?! I think he should really consider doing that more often!

What about Misha's video of West and Maison and the "elopus?" Misha's voice was deep and kind of nasally. I wonder if he's sick or something? Maybe it was just early in the morning, haha. Either way, you guys should check those out!

MusicForMySoul requested: "So my idea is that John and Sam are fighting a lot and Dean is always having to be the peace keeper. I thought maybe they fight so much that it starts wearing on Dean and causes him stress and to get sick. They finally realize something is wrong with Dean and take care of him." Honestly, I feel like this probably happened to Dean numerous times while they were growing up. Maybe not so much when they were young, but as Sam got older and more defiant toward the family business, him and John must have been really nasty to each other.

Dean is 21, and Sam is 17.

* * *

MusicForMySoul

* * *

_July 21, 2000_

"We're a family, Sam! Or did you somehow forget that!" Dad screams.

Sam scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know we're a family, Dad! But this isn't the life I want to live anymore."

"What, you think that since you're some big and bad high school senior that the world is suddenly your oyster? That's shit, and you know it. You have a job to do here with me and your brother! Finding this son of a bitch is _what we do._ There's nothing more important."

Dean winces at his father's last comment. Sam has always been a nerd; incredibly smart, tenacious, and stubborn as hell. He can read a seven hundred page novel in a day, write a ten page essay in a matter of hours, and finish math homework by the time Dean gets out of the shower every night. Yes, while this whole wanting to go to college thing hurts and scares him to death, but he understands. It's his job to understand everything that's going on with the kid.

The blond Winchester pretends he's sleeping, curled up beneath his leather jacket on top of the motel bed he and Sam will be sharing tonight. He's facing away from his arguing brother and dad, knees drawn up to his chest, resting his cheek on the flat pillow. Dad and Sam don't care about what he's doing anyway since they're in yet another heated discussion. He just wishes so badly that they would act civil toward each other.

Sam likes to start needless fights over things like waking at early morning hours, what restaurant they stop at for lunch, and how much he genuinely hates being cooped up with them during the summer. He wants to go back to school so he can use it as an excuse to get Dad to shut up and stop riding him for two seconds. Dean doesn't think his brother realizes that the incessant and habitual screaming matches are getting old, but he still tries to be there for him.

Dad doesn't like to acknowledge how his youngest son is feeling at all. Sam's always been different. While Dean falls in line and does what he's told, Sam's the rebellious teenager who tries to mentally and physically run from the family business. Dean thinks that if he and Sam were to sit down and just _talk_ about why Sam feels the way he does, progress could actually be made. Their relationship is intensely rocky, and it drives the oldest Winchester nuts.

"So this is still about college, isn't it? We already discussed this."

"Yeah, I know we did...Y'know what? Just forget it," Sam says, padding over to the other side of the bed and collapsing down on it next to Dean. Dad doesn't utter another word and just slams the door shut as he exits violently. The pictures of cabins on the walls shake. Sam flicks off the bedside lamp and immediately turns away. Dean tries to rub his back and let him know he's here for him, but Sam flinches away. "Leave me alone," he mumbles.

And so Dean does.

* * *

_July 22, 2000_

"Why do we have to eat at McDonalds again?" Sam moans, pushing his face against the glass window of the Impala. Dean, who is up in the front seat, cringes internally as he watches his father's knuckles turn white from gripping the steering wheel too hard. It's not even seven in the morning yet, and Sam's already at it. Sometimes, playing the role of the supportive brother is hard when said brother is constantly going through puberty.

John sighs heavily. "Get your face off my window."

"All you care about is this stupid car and hunting," he grumbles.

More screaming. More yelling. More shouting. Dad actually pulls the car over, grips at Sam by his t-shirt, and drags him outside to wag his finger and spit in his face as he lectures loudly. Dean sinks down lower into the seat, wraps his arms around his aching torso, and closes his eyes. The hot summer sun beats down on him, but every part of him is freezing. He's even wearing his leather jacket, but neither Dad nor Sam seems to notice.

If Dean's being honest with himself, he feels like complete and total shit. His nose thinks it's funny to switch from clogged to runny every two minutes, his throat is raw and scratchy, and his head pounds each time his breathes. On top of all of this, his asthma acts up constantly because of the musty rooms, dust, and the stupid warm weather. He prefers the winter so he doesn't have to use his inhaler so many times in a continuous stream.

Sam has tears streaming down his cheeks by the time he hops back in the car. He shuts the door quietly, wipes the salty liquid with the collar of his shirt, and stares out the window. Dean gulps when Dad huffs and puffs. No one says anything. Dean could cut the tension with a knife. He holds his breath until the Impala glides on to the road. He sniffles and coughs as silently as possible, noticing how rattily and tight his chest feels.

"Stop that, Dean," Dad commands.

He nods. "Yes, sir."

* * *

By the time they stop at an old fashioned diner outside of Colorado, Dean is shivering with exhaustion and can barely keep his eyes open. He switched from contacts to glasses in the car since he was having trouble reading the road maps through blurry vision, and Dad was getting extremely pissed off. The Winchesters get out of the Impala, head inside, and Dean begins trembling from the cold ass air conditioner in the building.

Sam slides in next to Dean, looking nothing shy of miserable. His cheeks are bright red and eyes are puffy from crying off and on, but he has yet to say another word since his and Dad's argument. Dad wanders off to the restroom, and Dean nudges his brother's shoulder. "You okay?" Sam doesn't even glance in his direction; he just fumbles with the menu and taps his fingers nervously on the table. "Dude?"

"'m fine."

"Yeah, because you definitely sound like it. Cut the crap, and talk to me."

Sam sighs and scrubs his hands down his face. Dean places a warm hand on his back. "I'm just so tired of Dad. We can't get along. And I get that I cause stupid fights sometimes, but he doesn't listen to me. Ever. And it's really annoying. Neither of us deserve to live like this. I feel like if I can get all of these scholarships next year, then I should be able to do what I want with my life. It's not like Dad would have to pay for it..."

"I don't think it's about the money, Sammy."

"_Sam_," he corrects. "Then what is it? Is it because I don't want to be miserable for the rest of my life?"

Dad begins walking back to their table. Dean whispers, "We'll talk about this later, buddy."

Sam nods and smiles just a tiny bit, seeming to at least understand. Typically, it doesn't take much to get his brother to calm down. These days, he just wants to know that Dean will always have his back, no matter what his decision is. Even if it hurts Dean, he will do anything to make sure his brother is taken care of and supported as if he were any other kid. Dad doesn't look as angry or irritated anymore, so at least that's good.

Dean looks down at the menu. His head is killing him, and he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. Thank God they're in between hunts right now otherwise he'd be outside in the muddy swamps or some shit, and he can barely move without grunting in pain as it is. His entire body is an achy and sticky mess. Sweat is beading on his forehead, and he is unable to get warm no matter what. His teeth are even starting to chatter.

"Can I get a salad?" Sam asks Dad.

Dad eyes him like he's lost his frigging mind. "You need protein to hunt, not wussy ass vegetables."

The blond figures it's probably okay for him to say things like that to Sam. Afterall, he's only kidding. Sam has had so many macaroni and cheese, pizza, and fast food meals in his life that he does just want a salad. While Dean would never touch lettuce unless it's on a cheeseburger, Sam actually likes it. Like he mentioned before, he'll make or do anything to satisfy his younger brother. Dean wants to plug his ears and act like he's not witnessing yet another argument.

Sam proceeds to tell Dad how selfish he is for dragging them all over God's green earth and acting like he doesn't even love his own kids. He digs up past memories of not being able to play peewee soccer or own a bike or walk around with his school friends. Dean coughs harshly into the crook of his elbow and then massages the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Why does this always have to happen so many times a day?

* * *

Dean's not sure how much more of this he can take. He's been vomiting since Dad and Sam went to sleep a while ago; he's not even sure how long it's been. His knees are quaking, and he's freezing despite the fact that he's bundled from head to toe. Sweat drips on to his brother's hoodie he's borrowing for the time being. He coughs and gags up a fountain of reddish brown from his cheeseburger. The taste burns and singes his already raw through.

He grabs a few tissues and blows his nose into it. In the process, he ends up dipping his clothed elbows in his sickness coating the toilet seat and grimaces. Gross. His hands tremble as he tries to push himself back into a standing position, but no part of his body will cooperate. Dean hacks and sputters. He's lightheaded. Needs to get out of here and back into bed. Nothing works. His breathing is heavy, and his vision is blurry, and his ears feel like they've been stuffed with cotton.

"Dean?"

The older Winchester glances up to see his teen brother, who is already taller than him by two inches, with a worried expression plastered all over his face. The brunette drops down on to his knees and rubs his shoulders. The touch feels warm and good and inviting and way better than listening to his brother and dad fight over and over again over again. Dean leans into the first physical contact he's received in little less than three years.

"Jeez, you're burning up," Sam says.

"'be 'lright," he slurs.

Sam doesn't say anything else. He hoists him up to where he's sitting on the edge of the bathtub since the toilet seat is beyond just soiled. "Wait here," his younger brother says. He leaves and closes the door behind him only to return less than a minute later. During that time, Dean was sure he was going to pass out and ended up putting his head between his shaking knees. Sam helps remove his clothing until he's wearing boxers and socks. He replaces the pukey hoodie with a long sleeved shirt that's two sizes too big and sweats that drag way past his feet.

The younger Winchester has him take NyQuil and Tylenol and then brush his teeth. He uses Sam as a crutch to get back into bed because he's not confident with how much his stomach is rolling. At least Sam will be able to catch him if he begins to topple toward the floor. Once his brother makes sure he's covered up, he snuggles next to him.

"I'm sorry, dude," Sam says.

"For what?"

"Me and Dad always fighting. Sometimes I forget we're getting you caught in the middle."

Dean shrugs his shoulders. "'s okay. Used to it. Just wish you guys would try to get along."

* * *

_July 23, 2000_

When Dean stirs in the morning, he's no longer glued to his brother's chest. His face is hot and sticky, and his entire body is nothing but a breeding ground for pain and agony. He's stuffy, sweaty, and probably stinky. The blond grips on to a few tissues on the nightstand as if they're his only lifelines and blows his nose viciously into them. He moans and rolls back into the pillow, breathing heavily into the fabric, trying to clear up his congestion.

"Good morning, Deano," he hears his father whisper.

He winces when he ruffles his hair. "G'morning, sir," he mumbles. He knows what this means. Even though his tone is considerably gentler, he's aware that his dad wants to get back on the road. Their latest hunt is located in Missouri, which is a couple hundred miles away from where they are. If they wait and sleep much longer, the ghost or demon or whatever the hell it is may kill more people. Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Only his dad pushes him back down.

He doesn't respond, but his confusion must speak louder than words.

"You need to rest. Your brother told me you aren't feeling too hot."

Dean shakes his head. "No. I'm fine, sir. Let's get out of here."

"Son, please. Let me and Sam take care of you for a bit."

Another shake of the head. It's not their job to take care of him; it never has been. The instant his mother died, Dean adorned his first role of caretaker for his infant baby brother. He fed, bathed, and read to him as well as a not-yet kindergartner could have. Dad was rarely around, and Dean, from that point forward, became responsible for everything regarding himself and Sammy. He even takes care of Dad when he drinks too much or has a rough hunt.

"Dad, I promise I'm okay."

"No you're not, dude," Sam says, standing next to Dad and putting a hand on Dean's knee.

"Get some sleep, Dean. Me and Sammy will keep watch."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, MusicForMySoul! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	45. JeffStarships

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)

What did you guys think of the new episode last night?! I personally thought it was one of the best of the entire season so far. "Asstiel" and "Samtastic" were great! Plus, Bobby! Who could forget about Bobby?! His "Balls!" was the highlight of my day, and I wish he could just stick around for a few more episodes…or the rest of the series period. Dean's nightmare at the beginning actually kind of freaking me out and watching him lose grip with himself is really hard. I loved the letter from Bobby to Sam at the end too.

So, to be honest, I'm thinking about putting a limit on how many more requests total that I will write. Including this one, I have 22 left that I am _definitely_ writing. That takes us all the way up to April 23 for fics. Maybe I'll write up until May 2 for Sam's birthday? I'm not sure. I will be sure to make a formal announcement when and if I decide, but, once the announcement is made, I will only write the requests that have made the deadline.

I wish I could go on writing these forever, but, eventually, I'm sure I will be writing nearly the same prompts over and over again, and I think my words will get old. There's only so many ways I can rephrase things, haha. I want to move on and write other fics over the summer, and this one takes up quite a lot of time. Writing one of these a day is sometimes insanely difficult. Plus, I want to write a multi chapter story instead of just a bunch of one-shots.

JeffStarships requested: "Could you have Gabriel come and for some reason make the whole "Groundhog Day" thing happen again. Like you know when Dean died everyday...But instead of dying, Dean just gets worse and worse. For example, first maybe it would just be a cold but then later on he gets the flu or something." Ooh, this one is refreshing! I think this concept is really unique and kind of wild, which I love! By the way, lovely name, JeffStarships!

I'll set this one in season seven, but it's not related to what's going on at the time.

By the way, I chose to set this on Tuesday as a direct echo back to "Mystery Spot."

Also, Sam's going to be freaked out like was originally, but then he'll figure it out, so don't mind him.

I'm incredibly sorry if this one is just awful. It was hard to write.

* * *

JeffStarships

* * *

**Tuesday**

"_Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy? / Caught in a landslide, / No escape from reality."_

Sam slams his fist into the alarm clock set for six in the morning. Dammit, Dean. Really with the "Bohemian Rhapsody?"

Unfortunately for him, Dean's breathing is hitching audibly in his sleep. His brother is lying flat on his back, three pillows holding his head up and the other beneath his right arm. It seems as though his asthma flared up in the middle of the night, and this was the only way to combat it. Sam sits up and notes that there is a distinct wheezing noise emanating from the blond's wide-open mouth. They probably won't be going anywhere today.

The younger Winchester swings his legs over the side of the bed, stretching out like a cat and popping his back. Normally, his brother is an incredibly light sleeper, and something as tiny bones crackling will send him reaching his hand under the pillow to grip at the gun he hides there. Dean snores on, sniffling periodically. Sam starts to shake his big brother's shoulder; his skin isn't sticky, warm, or sweaty. No fever. Maybe it is just allergies from the start of spring?

"Dean," Sam whispers.

The older Winchester creaks a sore eye open to peer at Sam. "What?" His voice is thick and nasally. Sam hands him a few tissues, and he blows harshly into the wad. His snot is puke green and nasty; he's coming down with something. The brunette sighs, grabs the mess from him, drops it into the trashcan, and begins rummaging through their medical supplies. They have no decongestant and are currently using their last box of Kleenex. Great.

A knock at the door distracts the taller man from his assessment of his brother. He rolls his eyes and sighs. Quickly, he pulls on the pair of jeans he wore yesterday to cover up his blue boxers. Who the hell knocks at freaking six in the morning? He pops open the door to see a maid with a stack of grey towels in her hands. "Fresh towels," is all she says. She's wearing a white uniform and has intensely curly brown hair that scares Sam.

Sam grabs them. "Thanks," he says rather unsurely.

Since when do motels have staff that hand deliver towels?

He shrugs it off, places them down on his bed, and turns his attention back to Dean.

"How're you feeling?"

Dean shrugs. "Nose is just runny. I'll be fine."

Sam immediately pushes him back into bed. "For once, you're actually going to just rest for the day. I'm going to go grab some supplies from the gas station down the street, and you're going to shower and go back to sleep. You'll thank me later when you're not a shivering and puking mess." He can't help but smile when Dean grumbles and flips him the bird, but covers himself up with the comforter. He clicks on the television and settles into his mound of pillows.

The instant Sam jumps in the Impala on his way to the store, his vision goes black.

* * *

**Tuesday**

"_Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy? / Caught in a landslide, / No escape from reality."_

Sam sits straight up in bed with his heart pounding rapidly into his chest.

What the hell just happened?

He slams his fist into the alarm clock with such a crazy sense of déjà vu. Didn't this... Wasn't this... But how? Sam runs a shaky hand through his hair and turns to his still sleeping brother. He's propped up, once again, with a large quantity of pillows and on his back. Dean's a stomach sleeper. He only sleeps on his back when he can't breathe out his nose or his asthma is acting up. But wasn't this yesterday? What happened to all the time? Did he even go to the store to get medicine? Why does it feel like yesterday is today, but it's also yesterday too? Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed and chucks a pillow at his snoring brother.

Dean coughs himself away, sputtering violently. The cough is wet and vicious, like there's chunks of phlegm holed up in his esophagus for the spring. "What?" His eyes are extremely bloodshot, and his voice is raspy and weak. Snot is pouring down his face and into his wide-open mouth, and his barking doesn't make matters any worse. So yesterday was a runny nose, and today there's a cough with it? It doesn't make any sense.

"Hey, man," he says. "Did I give you any meds yesterday?"

Dean eyes him confusingly. "Huh? 'is jus' happen'd."

Knock knock.

Okay, seriously. What the hell is going on here?

He did this yesterday; he's sure. Sam throws on the same exact pair of jeans over the same exact pair of boxers and answers the door the same exact way he did yesterday. The maid in the white uniform stands in the frame with the grey towels in her hands. "Fresh towels." Sam takes them and frantically slams the door shut. He fumbles with his cell phone and ignores the strange expression plastered all over his older brother's face.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012.

Tuesday.

"Yesterday was Tuesday, right?" Sam asks, hoping Dean knows what's happening.

Dean shrugs after he finishes blowing his nose and coughing loudly. "Guess so."

Sam's eyes widen. "But today's Tuesday too!"

His brother's eyebrows rise. "You need to lay off the martinis, man."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Umm... I'm confused."

Sam runs his hands through his hair once more and sits down on the edge of his bed. Dean has a tissue wad hanging out of his nose to stuff the snot back in. His hair is sticking up in every each direction possible. No fever, but he looks...worse than he did yesterday. Or today. Or whatever this is. Maybe he's having some kind of acid trip. Except he doesn't do drugs. Sam really has absolutely no clue what he's supposed to do other than wake up tomorrow and move on.

"I'm gonna go get you some meds," is all he says before he walks out the door.

* * *

**Tuesday**

"_Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy? / Caught in a landslide, / No escape from reality."_

Sam's head is spinning rapidly as his fist slams into the alarm clock, shutting off the Queen song.

Okay, so it's still Tuesday. Gabriel did this to him about four years ago. And why it has to be on a Tuesday _again_ is one thing he'll never understand. He knows he can't leave the motel room, otherwise he will wake back up, and this whole thing will repeat itself. He has to look for subtle differences within the day. Last time, it was a man using strawberry syrup on his pancakes instead of maple like he had the one hundred plus Tuesdays before.

He checks under the bed, on top of his sheets, glances over his and his brother's clothing. Nothing is sticking out as different to him, but, then again, he hasn't exactly been paying attention. He can't even remember what color shirt Dean has been wearing while sleeping for the past two Tuesdays. Sam sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. This is going to be a lot harder than he thought. He contemplates just heading out the door and waking up again.

But then Dean stirs. This is the first time he's woken up on his own these past few days.

"S'm.." he mutters. "D'nt feel good."

And, as if none of what's happening matters anymore, Sam places a gentle hand on his brother's forehead. His cheeks are scorched red, his hair his flat against his forehead, and he's sweating heavily. Sam notes that, just in case, his shirt is green and belongs to him. So, it seems to be that what changes isn't only him; Dean changes too. And, each day comes with a new symptom: sneezing, coughing, and now fever. Hmm...He's still confused.

Knock knock.

Sam glances down at his bare legs. Instead of throwing on his jeans, he answers the door in barefoot and only wearing his boxers and a t-shirt. The crazy-haired maid announces that she has some newly "Fresh towels." All four towels are grey. _Keep that in mind. _Uniform is white. Hair is brown. She looks completely and utterly normal, but the smallest, little thing could be the difference between six or seven Tuesdays and over one hundred of them.

"What do you remember?" he asks his brother, who looks positively grey himself.

"'bout what?"

"Yesterday. Monday. Did anything seem weird or different to you?"

He shakes his head.

"No storms, no freak phenomena?"

Another shake.

Dammit.

He'll figure this out one way or the other.

"Sammy, I really don't feel so hot," Dean says. Snot is, once again, dribbling into his mouth, and his cough has definitely gotten worse today. It's low, wet, and deep, all of which are bad signs. Sam just prays that, whatever this is, it doesn't get too much worse. Like hospital bad. If he leaves the room, it starts over, but he can't exactly stay in here forever. He has to look for clues, and the only way to do that, he learned before, is to start over.

_Please just don't let this hurt Dean._

* * *

**Tuesday**

"_Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy? / Caught in a landslide, / No escape from reality."_

His first order of business is checking the entire room from top to bottom. He efficiently carries around a notepad and scribbles down his observations like a little kid scientist would. There's a green rust stain on the toilet. The kitchen clock is precisely seventeen minutes off. He even takes inventory of their laundry, the colors of their clothing, and whether they are clean or dirty. Dean's got a cut on his hairline that he didn't notice prior, but he'll check it every Tuesday he suffers through.

Speaking of his brother, it's time to take his temperature. Sneezing, coughing, fever, and, now, a whole new slew of flu-like symptoms. He asked his brother a few minutes ago if he felt different, even though each day Dean wakes up thinking it's the first and only Tuesday of the week, and the response was frightening. Instead of obtaining one new symptom, he received fatigue, chills, and apparently a monstrous headache today.

Guilt is swelling inside of Sam with each passing second. First, Dean dies in a hundred ways, some of which he can't even wrap his mind around, and now he's getting sicker and sicker. It's just the flu is what it looks like, but, if this continues, he'll die. And this time he thinks Gabriel (who he's confident is behind this) may make it permanent and toy with him and make him lose another six months of his life fighting his way to him.

Knock knock.

Towels.

Brown haired lady. White uniform. Nothing new.

"Sammy..." Dean murmurs, thrashing on the bed.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Make it stop."

And he knows just how to do it. But that means starting a new day over again.

* * *

**Tuesday**

"_Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy? / Caught in a landslide, / No escape from reality."_

Dean's been vomiting since Sam woke him up around four this morning. New symptom. His big brother is clearly beyond miserable. He's sweating, shaking, shivering, and can't seem to stop sneezing. Everything seems a thousand times worse than yesterday, and Sam isn't sure how much longer he can stand seeing him like this. He's been thinking about what was worse between this growing illness and the one hundred dumb ways Dean died before, and feels this is less severe in some ways.

Towel lady came by earlier. There were no differences there.

Dean is still clad in boxers and a green long sleeved shirt.

The motel room looks identical to all of the other days.

He has to be missing something.

"Sick, S'mmy..." Dean mutters. He curls himself on top of Sam's lap. He's burning up beneath his touch. They have no medicine to alleviate any form of symptoms, and it's not like it would help much in the first place. Sam rubs his brother's hot back with his palm, soothing circles around the areas he feels it hurts him the most. Dean responds by snuggling closer and wrapping his arms practically around his little brother's legs.

Sam nods. "I know, Deano. I'm going to make it better."

* * *

**Tuesday**

"_Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy? / Caught in a landslide, / No escape from reality."_

"'m comin', Dad."

"Whoa whoa whoa. Where are you going?"

"Dad says I gotta meet 'im back at Pastor Jim's. Big case came up. Needs my help."

"Buddy...Dad's dead. Has been for years now."

"Quit kiddin', Sammy...Jus' talked to 'im myself. Gotta go find 'im."

"You're not going anywhere, Dean. Shh... It's okay. I gotcha."

"Gotta keep you safe... You're my 'sponsibility."

* * *

**Tuesday**

"_Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy? / Caught in a landslide, / No escape from reality."_

Blood. He's vomiting up blood all over himself, the toilet seat, and the bathtub from making the dash prematurely. Dean has basically crumpled in on himself and is hugging himself on the tile. Sam wraps the comforter around his aching and cold body. His face is covered with crimson; it's even in his hair. It drips out of his mouth and on to pretty much everything visible. Sam tries to push away the tears, but he can't help it.

Dean's going to die. Fever, hallucinations, throwing up blood, it's all signs of the end. And Sam can't do this anymore. He wants to start a new Tuesday, but that clearly will just make Dean worse. What's next? A coma? Death? Sam fears it's the latter, and he can't risk that. If he has to sit right here with his brother for the rest of eternity, he will. There's nothing more important to him than Dean, and Gabriel or whoever this is is just going to have to accept that. He'll die for his brother if it means that he will stop getting so violently ill.

There's a knock at the door, and he has to leave Dean cowering in on himself on the floor. Sam still has to check every single, tiny, seemingly insignificant aspect of this Tuesday. The towel lady is a big part of it. He swipes away his tears, sniffles, and sprints to the door, praying that something will be different. He has to get his big brother out of this mess. He can't survive many more days without coughing up a lung or puking up an organ.

When he opens the door, he could cry in joy.

The towels.

... They're brown instead of grey.

And the instant he's about to open his mouth, his vision goes black.

* * *

**Wednesday**

"_Workin' like a dog for de boss man / Working for de company / I'm bettin' on the dice I'm tossin' / I'm gonna have a fantasy"_

Sam instantly sits up in bed. No Queen. No "Bohemian Rhapsody." He frantically picks up his phone with shaky hands.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012.

The younger Winchester throws the covers off of himself and sprints over to his sleeping brother. Dean is sprawled out on his stomach, snoring quietly. Not sick snoring, just snoring snoring. His hair is a bit on the matted down side, but his cheeks and nose are normal color. Sam shakes his bare back rather harshly, but he doesn't care. Everything is okay now. It's Wednesday. It doesn't even matter to him how or why this happened as long as Dean's okay.

"Whad'ya want, Sam?" he grumbles, creaking open an eye to look at his brother.

"How do you feel?"

Dean pulls himself up to where he's settled against the headboard. "Fine. Tired. Why?"

Without any warning, Sam plants himself on the edge of the bed and wraps his arms around his brother's back. Thank God. Thank God this all over. Dean isn't sick and isn't getting worse and isn't going to die. He squeezes and holds on to him for dear life, vowing that he will never ever let the older hunter fall through the cracks. Sam is so immensely happy that this whole ordeal is over with that he could dance and literally throw a party in honor of it.

"Uh, dude?"

Sam pulls away. "Sorry. Just missed you is all."

Dean frowns momentarily, but then seems to shake it off. "Well, I'm right here."

Sam nods. "Yeah, I know. How about some pie? It's Pi Day!"

"You know you don't gotta ask me twice."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you enjoyed it, JeffStarships! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	46. Dementra (I)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazingly awesome television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. It belongs to Kripke. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thank you very much for favoriting, following, requesting, reviewing, and simply reading! =)

Dementra requested: "The hunt occurs in the wilderness, and for whatever reason, they are far from the Impala and can't call for help (maybe no signal or lost their phone). Both brothers are injured, but it's Sam who falls unconscious. Despite being really injured himself, Dean carries Sam to the Impala and drives to the hospital. But, his injuries worsen because of that and he goes into the ICU after he falls unconscious after making sure Sam is safe. Sam wakes up and discovers what Dean did. This should happen after or during a time they've been arguing, just to show that even brotherly conflicts won't stop Dean from being the protective and self-sacrificing older brother." I just want to say that I adore this plot too! =)

I'm going to set this one-shot in season three.

Warning for f-bombs and a major sap alert ahead! I'm sorry if this seems a little out of character, and I also apologize if it's too sappy for your liking.

* * *

Dementra (I)

* * *

_February 26, 2008_

It's snowing like a bitch outside. Fat, fluffy flakes are sticking on to the beanie Sam forced him to wear under penalty of death, despite the fact that they had a monstrous blowout not even two hours ago. Blood trickles into his mouth. Damn, that stuff tastes like shit. The crap is dripping into the snow. He places a bare hand on the side of his head and gulps when he pulls it back. His fingers are nothing but a sea of red, which just slides in between them and into the snow.

He doesn't feel any pain; that's the weird part.

Sam is crumpled up in a heap next to a tree. He figures it's probably the one that _thing_ flung him into. He isn't moving, and Dean's not too sure he's breathing either. The older Winchester sinks into at least eight or nine inches of the white mass and tries frantically to shake his brother awake. Sam's face is littered with cuts and bruises, some of which are bleeding rapidly. It's difficult to assess what exactly is wrong with him, especially since he's knocked out.

Dean's heart literally feels like it's shattering into multiple pieces. Why did they have to fight tonight? He's not saying that it would make this situation any better, but at least Sam wouldn't be unconsciously thinking that he's irritating and annoying. The argument was seriously stupid anyway. Dean left his socks in the sink (again), Sam screamed at him for being irresponsible and nasty, and they both duked it out over the dumb things each brother does.

Like he said, it was a useless waste of time. And, if he had known they were going to be in this predicament, he wouldn't have fought or came out here tonight. Sam's going to be a sick, feverish mess once they get to the hospital after being caught in the middle of a friggin' snowstorm. The first thing Dean does is prop his brother against the very tree he was hurt on, checking over him as best as he can with the mini flashlight held between his teeth.

From what he can actually make out, Sam's got a few broken ribs, at the very least. He's praying there isn't a punctured lung somewhere in there. His abdomen is already a mar and mash up of black and purple bruises and is visibly swollen. Not good. He doesn't bother assessing the legs because the freakishly tall beast won't be walking anyway. There's no way to hurt himself further with Dean in control. He's just wondering why he can't feel anything yet.

Shock, he guesses. Dean tries to stop the tears that are streaming down his freezing cheeks, but he can't. His entire body is quivering as he touches his brother's pale face with his bloody hands. He's ice cold to the touch, so Dean removes his overcoat, the leather jacket beneath it, and sweater that he stole from his brother. Getting Sam into the clothing is easy enough since he's unconscious, but, for some reason, his fingers aren't working that well.

Dean's left in just a grey long sleeved thermal and blue jeans. He doesn't mind, though. The cold nips at his body, but it will be okay as long as Sam makes it through this. He notes that his brother is breathing shallowly, but that's better than not at all. Dean hoists him up, his back and torso igniting in flames. Fuck. Motherfucker. The older Winchester pushes past the intense agony ripping shreds through his body. Fuck. Now he can't feel it.

Sam doesn't even begin to stir in his arms. They're so far away from the Impala... Dean wishes they had both brought their cell phones, but this was supposed to be a simple hunt. Nothing was supposed to happen, especially not after a fight like that. He didn't figure anything like this was going to occur, and now every inch of him feels guilty. Sam's really hurt and won't wake up, and he's afraid he never will. He never should have left his stupid socks in the sink.

The walk to the Impala leaves him a staggering, stumbling mess as he trips over his own feet. Sam's like three inches taller and at least twenty pounds heavier. But, hey, he ain't heavy. Well, he's a _little _heavy. Dean will do anything to make sure his brother is safe, regardless of what or how hard it is. Blood continues to pour from the open wound on the side of his head. He guesses he must be cut somewhere else for it to drip into his mouth like this.

Dean thinks that the snow is growing deeper and deeper by the second. He almost drops Sam several times, but he can't injure him anymore than he already is. Nausea tugs at the back of his throat, and his head pounds with every step he takes. He needs his inhaler. Badly. His vision dances all around him; little colorful dots swim in front of him. Dean's not too sure he isn't about to lose it himself, but he has to keep going. He has to.

At some point during this five thousand year trek in the woods at the end of February, Dean vomits while walking, which is a first for him. But he tries not to get it on his brother. It's a bunch of yellowish brown chunks that burn his throat. He's too dizzy. He's sure if he stops now that he won't make it to the hospital with Sam in tow. Just a few more steps. He can see his baby from here. _C'mon. You can do this._

The oldest Winchester could freaking kiss the Impala once he lays his bloody hands on her. His fingertips are completely blue, and the blood must have finally dried. But nothing else matters. No amount of fighting changes the fact that he's going to get Sam to safety, even if it kills him in the process. Dean tucks his brother, who does at least look warm and toasty, into the backseat, bundles him with the army blanket from the trunk just in case, and doesn't stop moving.

If he stops, he'll pass out. He can feel it deep in his guts. Dean moans when he slides into the front seat. He cranks the heat full blast, but he can't shake the chill in his bones. His fingers aren't cooperating, his wrist is sickeningly red and dangerously swollen, and his head feels three sizes too big for his body. The road wavers in front of him. He thinks he's lost his contacts or something because he can barely see a damn thing.

To be honest, he isn't sure how he makes it to the hospital alive. He just knows he's here and that everything will be okay as soon as he gets Sam inside. Dean loses a chunk of time in between picking his brother up and getting inside the actual ER; he's in too much pain to register what's going on around him. At first, people stare at him like he's crazy. He's swaying on his feet with a man who's way bigger than he is nuzzled protectively in his arms.

"Somebody help my brother!" he manages to squeak out.

The instant a stretcher is wheeled over to handle Sam, Dean blacks out and smacks his head against the tiled floor.

* * *

_February 28, 2008_

Sam is up and moving stiffly and slowly on crutches just a day and a half later. His left tibia and fibula were a disastrous mess, but it isn't anything a few plates and screws can't fix. He conked his head pretty nicely, broke a few ribs, has over fifty stitches, and is beaten and battered to the bone. He neglects a wheelchair because, well, he's a Winchester. Plus, he's had way worse than this (Fourth of July of 1990's car accident); he can tough it out.

When he woke up yesterday, he was informed not only of his injuries but also of his brother's heroism. He can't remember what happened or how. He doesn't remember being knocked unconscious, and he certainly doesn't remember being carried over five miles in the middle of a blizzard by his dangerously hurt brother. Sam just knows he owes Dean big time. The youngest Winchester has no idea if he would have enough strength to do what he did.

The thing is is that Dean's still asleep when he hobbles in to see him. His brother's injuries were definitely worsened by his journey. His left wrist is broken, and his right is badly sprained; not to mention that his right elbow is mangled beyond belief. He's got a cracked cheekbone, a severe concussion, and five broken ribs. The worst of it all is undoubtedly the pneumonia and hypothermia associated with being outside in negative degree weather.

Needless to say, guilt is the main thing Sam's feeling right now. And the fight was so _incredibly fucking dumb_. Who cares if he left his dirty socks in the sink again? One can best believe that Sam will never mention that statement in his life, especially not after what his brother went through last night. He can only picture what would have happened if they both had been knocked out. Neither of them would be here, and that's for sure.

Dean's hooked up to an oxygen mask, heart monitor, an IV, and numerous other things Sam's too tired to identify. He pulls up a chair, gingerly sits his sore body down, stretches out his blue casted leg, and reaches out to hold his brother's hand. Dean's skin is hot and flushed from the fever, and his complexion, while it's always been a tad bit paler than Sam's, is ghost white. He's nothing more than a giant purple bruise.

Sam dozes off somewhere along the line and dreams about his brother being safe and not sick or injured. He is awoken by the sound of gravelly coughing and Dean pleading for a drink of water. The brunette grabs a single crutch and hoists himself up. This is the first time he notices how difficult taking care of him will be like this. Dean can't hold the cup because of his hands, and Sam has to remove the oxygen mask as well. His brother drinks the water greedily.

"Hey, bro," Sam whispers.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean immediately inquires, barely letting Sam finish his question.

The younger Winchester nods and smiles. "Thanks to you."

"Listen, man." Dean seems to be wasting no time. "'m really sorry about everything. I won't leave my clothes lying around anymore, and I'll try to be less of a dick. I get that I'm not easy to put up with. But you really scared the shit out of me back there, and I don't want this to ever happen again. To be honest, dude, even though you look like crap, I'm so friggin' happy to see your face." He grips Sam's hand tighter and tries to push back the tears. "I love you, baby brother."

Sam shakes his head while sitting back down in the chair by his bedside, but he doesn't let go of his hand. He can't help but let tears streak down his bruised cheeks, and he gives his brother a watery smile. "Don't ever worry about that again. It was so stupid, Dean. I was irritated and annoyed with you, and I shouldn't have been such an asshole. You...You saved my life. I'm just glad you're okay..." he trails off near the end. "I love you too, big brother."

* * *

_March 6, 2008_

When Dean is finally released from the hospital, he's wobbly and has to use a wheelchair to get from the parking lot to the Impala to the motel. Sam can't push him or carry him like he normally would because of his leg, ribs, and head. Dean has to use his legs to do all of the work since his right arm is in a sling, and his left wrist is in a lime green cast, courtesy of Sam. By the time they make it inside, they're out of breath and sagging with exhaustion.

Dean pulls himself from the wheelchair to the edge of his bed. If he could, he would so be cradling his head in his hands right now. He's so dizzy and tired, and he feels like he's going to barf all over the floor. His abdomen is on fire. But Sam can't be feeling too hot either, so he doesn't whine. Sam's a shade of red as he struggles to carry their bags in, only using one crutch to support himself. These next six weeks, needless to say, are going to suck ass.

"How're you feeling?" Sam questions.

Dean shrugs. "Okay. You?"

Another shrug. "We'll make it through this. We always do."

Dean can't help but smile. "We always will."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Dementra! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	47. Juvdelink25

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all very much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)

Today is my cousin Tristan's second birthday! Happy birthday, Little Man! I still remember the first time I held you in my arms.

Juvdelink25 requested: "How about Dean's first asthma attack after he gets back from Purgatory? You mentioned in another story that while there he ran out of meds pretty fast and had to deal with it in other ways, so maybe the first time it happens when he is back, he still doesn't have any meds and tries to deal with it alone because Cas and Benny aren't there, like he has been for the last year. But eventually Sam notices and goes to get the meds he needs."

This one is set in season eight, just as a reference point.

* * *

Juvdelink25

* * *

_October 7, 2012_

To say that Sam has fallen out of sync with his brother would be an understatement. Hell, Dean can't even look him in the eye anymore. They spend their nights in motels not speaking and doing their own thing, which, these days, are his brother sleeping fitfully and him researching local hunts into the wee hours of the morning. Sam hasn't shared a motel room with anyone other than Amelia and her dog Riot for over a year now. And having Dean back isn't exactly easy.

Sam made peace with the fact that Dean had died. He buried him away in his mind, and, while having him alive is obviously preferred, he didn't want to get sucked back into this life when his with Amelia was normal. Each time Sam thinks everything will go the way he planned since the tender age of eight when he first learned about monsters, Dean drags him back into it. Don't get him wrong; he's happy his brother is alright, but he wishes things were different.

He's in the middle of reading an article about a possible poltergeist in Minnesota when Dean's rattling cough shakes him from his trance. His brother had been tossing and turning in bed since they arrived nearly five hours ago. He never sleeps in sweats or boxers anymore, forever guarding himself and what happened in Purgatory by wearing thick clothes, despite it still being moderately warm outside. And his sleep schedule is a wreck.

"You okay?" he asks. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. Like he said, they haven't exactly been talking. He turns around in his chair to see his brother rolled on to his side, fiddling with his new cell phone. The warm glow echos off Dean's face, revealing it to be alarmingly pale with a bit of a flush across the bridge of his nose. Sam prays he isn't coming down with something. He has a feeling that, in this state, Dean being under the weather would be a disaster for them.

Dean doesn't answer him; he just continues scrolling through a mostly white screen. Sam assumes he's on the search for another hunt as well. More hacking erupts from his brother's windpipe, and Sam pads over to the side of the bed to rub his back reassuringly. Dean flinches away from him almost instantly, but it's enough time for the younger Winchester to feel the warmth rising beneath the thick sweatshirt that used to belong to him.

Sam shakes his head and sighs heavily. "Dean," he tries to coax.

He isn't granted a response. Instead his older brother rolls over once again to where he's facing the wall. Dean clicks the smart phone off, crosses his arms over his chest, and visibly nuzzles his face into the pillow. Sam huffs partly in irritation and partly in worry. He knows that not looking for Dean messed with his mind and made him automatically less trustworthy. Sam still feels a little indifferent toward the whole thing. So, he grabs the blanket from his bed and drapes across his brother's still form. A few seconds later, rough and nasally snores fill the room.

* * *

_October 8, 2012_

To say that Dean is pissed would be an understatement. After everything he has done to make sure Sam is safe his _entire _life, Sam can't even return the favor by just _looking_ for him. When they were kids, his dad's mantra was "look out for Sammy." More often than not, Dean can take care of himself, but this time he had to brave everything on his own and believe that his brother would come to save him. He had hope every single night.

And to come back to Earth knowing Sam didn't do a damn thing hurts the hell out of him; it's like a wound that won't heal despite medicine and stitches and Band-Aids. So, his goal is to ignore his brother for as long as possible. It seems like Sam doesn't even want him around anyway; he got in the way of his apple pie life and, once again, dragged him back into hunting. "Saving people. Hunting things. The family business" doesn't mean anything without Sam.

The older Winchester is sure he's running a fever due to how achy and shaky he feels. His cheeks are scorching, but the rest of his body is freezing. He shifts in his seat behind the wheel of the Impala multiple times. Not to mention his chest is killing him, and he hasn't been to a drug store to fill his asthma medication prescription that he desperately needs. In Purgatory, Cas and Benny literally had to talk him out of attacks. On more than one occasion, he dozed off protectively wrapped in Cas's arms with Benny watching over them to avoid a breathing catastrophe.

"Hey, can we pull over? I'm starving," Sam announces from the passenger seat.

Dean doesn't have any energy for quips, comebacks, or dirty looks. There's a diner about five minutes up the road, so he'll stop there. Hunger and food are still concepts that he has to re-focus his mind on. He hasn't eaten a solid item of food in the five days he's been back. Sam doesn't seem to notice (or care), either. He's been sticking to water and, once, a smoothie, which he vomited back up about an hour later. Needless to say, he really isn't hungry.

The dark blond puts his baby into park and lifts up his ass to grab his wallet. He tosses the leather pouch to Sam, throws on his sunglasses to block out the October sun, and leans his seat back. Sam doesn't utter a word about how weird it probably is, and Dean doesn't care. Well, he does care, but he can't deal with it now. He crosses his arms and tries to focus solely on breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out. His chest is tight, and he's wheezing heavily.

He tries to concentrate on happy memories, a technique that Benny suggested to him downstairs. In every instance, he thought of his baby brother. This time, however, he doesn't. He thinks about his first solo hunt that he nailed the shit out of and smiles, trying his best to even out his breathing, but his breaths still get caught in his throat. After a few minutes of this, he does actually feel somewhat better, minus the trembling joints and the possible fever.

By the time Sam emerges from the diner carrying a to-go container and a Styrofoam cup in both hands, Dean is half asleep. He awakens to the sound of the door closing lightly, and he struggles to get himself into a sitting position. He starts the Impala with shaking hands and hopes that his brother doesn't notice. But, things go on without a hitch. Dean gulps. Tears swell behind his sunglasses. His chest hurts. Why doesn't Sam care anymore?

* * *

They pull into the only motel they can find around ten that night. Dean has even used the GPS on his new phone to locate a place. Normally, he doesn't use them because he knows just about every single road in America by heart. But, tonight his brain is fuzzy, his vision is blurry, and he's having a harder time keeping himself from having an asthma attack right in the car. Sam checks them in while Dean gathers their duffels.

Surprisingly, the inside of the motel room isn't that bad looking for a dump on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. It quickly jumps to near the top of Dean's list, actually. There are two queen-sized beds with dark blue comforters that look warm and inviting. The light grey carpet isn't piss or shit stained and looks as though he can walk around in his socks without a care in the world. The bathroom is immaculate; thank God because they've dealt with a hell of a lot from creepy motel bathrooms in their lifetimes.

Dean sets the bags down on each of their respected beds, kicks off his boots, and begins to rummage through his duffel for clean clothes. He's going to just give in and hopefully sleep comfortably tonight by trying this whole pajamas and under the covers thing out. He hasn't worn sweatpants in what feels like ages, and he certainly hasn't used a blanket, no matter how chilly he feels. That luxury wasn't a concept in Purgatory, and he's still having a hard time adjusting to being able to do what he wants and sleep in a nice setting.

"Do you mind if I take the first shower?" Dean questions. He's not sure why it comes out so quiet and hesitant.

Sam nods. "Go right ahead, dude," he says like nothing has even changed.

When Dean starts to rid himself of the layers of clothes he's wearing, he notices how skinny and sick he truly looks. With the bulky clothing he wears, it's really hard to tell that he's lost about twenty-something pounds, possibly even thirty; he's not sure of the exact number. His eyes have all put sunken into his skull, they're constantly bloodshot, and he's sure the deep bags beneath them will never vanish. He can count his ribs when he's shirtless.

The hot water is like Heaven to the young hunter. The heat warms his sore body and helps alleviate the pressure in his chest. He closes his eyes and thinks. He needs to get his prescription filled tomorrow without Sam noticing. Sam's known about his asthma since he was a toddler and could barely walk, but he doesn't seem overly concerned with any part of Dean right now. Part of him is thankful for that and the other part craves his brother's attention.

He bundles himself in an under layer of grey thermals before throwing on black sweatpants, socks, and a striped long sleeved shirt he stole from Sam ages ago. He quickly dries his hair and doesn't even bother to flatten it from its crazy state. When he exits the bathroom, Sam is already fast asleep beneath the covers, his clothes sitting uncharacteristically in a pile by the bed. Dean, even though he feels like he's going to pass out, picks up the dirty clothes and sets them in a heap with own stuff. They'll do laundry later.

Dean clicks off the lamp in between their beds, snuggles up beneath the blankets, and falls fast asleep within seconds.

* * *

_October 9, 2012_

It's a little past five in the morning when Sam awakens for some reason. He isn't quite sure what it is though, since Dean is snoring in the bed next to him. Normally, this only happens when he hears his brother getting sick or something along those lines in the middle of the night. Huh. Weird. It's a decent time for the two of them to awaken, especially since six hours of sleep is freaking paradise to a Winchester. Sam feels refreshed enough, at least.

Usually, if he's the first one to awaken, he chucks a pillow at his still sleeping brother. This time, though, it's different. Dean is curled into a tight ball in the center of the bed. He seems to have adjusted himself to the fetal position because his head is tucked down toward his hunched up knees. His breathing is congested, heavy, and he just looks _vulnerable._ He's not even sure if he _should _wake him up, but he sounds like he's in need of some TLC and medicine.

"Dean," he whispers, shaking his shoulder gently. He's burning up beneath his palm, and Sam winces.

His brother moans, rolls over, and smacks his lips sleepily. He stretches and immediately tenses in pain. Sam sits down on the edge of his bed and continues rubbing his back until his eyes start to droop closed again. It's strange. Dean would fight him any other time, but now he's leaning into the touch. He wonders what the hell his brother is hiding from him. This is so unlike his big brother that it's beginning to make him sick to his stomach.

"Buddy," he coaxes softly. "You need to tell me what's wrong."

Dean only shakes his head. Yesterday was the first time he's heard his voice in days.

Sam vows to make his brother feel better because _this,_ whatever it is, can't go on forever.

* * *

Dean is breathing way too heavily. Sam's trying to alleviate his congestion by having him stand over hot running water in the kitchen sink. He steadies him with both hands on his back. Dean's quivering violently. The younger Winchester is comfy standing there in jeans and a light t-shirt, while the older of the two struggles beneath the navy hoodie he's borrowing and thick sweats. He's sweating uncomfortably and struggling to get his breathing under control.

"Okay, that's it," Sam says. "Where's your inhaler? I haven't seen it since you've been back."

Dean shakes his head. "Out of meds..." he mumbles hoarsely.

"What? You've been out this entire time?! Why didn't you say something?"

His only response is a shrug. Shit. Dammit. It figures that this would happen. When Dean has nothing to say about something that typically upsets him, he knows he's retreated completely back inside of himself. Sam should have asked. Truth be told, when Dean showed back up, he didn't even think about the chronic asthma his brother has been struggling with nearly his entire life. He didn't really ponder about anything that happened to him down there...

And he feels like utter shit because of it.

Sam shuts off the water, and Dean lifts up his head. He's audibly less congested. Without any warning or planning, both of them sink down to the floor against the cabinets. Dean puts his head in his hands. Sam can hear how hard he's trying to not either cry or suffer through an attack. Or, quite possibly, he's attempting not to do either. Sam puts a hand on his back and pulls him closer to where Dean is laying his head against his chest.

"How did you handle this down there?" he asks.

Dean shrugs as if it's actually nonchalant. "Cas helped calm me down. T-Time was weird down there," he swallows thickly. "And my meds last a month, but I'm not sure I-I made it that long. I was real-really bad and h-had a hard time controlling it."

Sam nods. That's it. Once Dean is feeling better, they're having one long ass talk. He needs to know everything, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, that happened to him. Sam has to understand, and it doesn't cross his mind that his brother won't tell him because, if not, he will play the little brother card on him. Dean's never been able to resist that one. He's still struggling with his breathing when Sam helps him back into bed on shaky legs.

"I'm going to pick up your meds. Please just rest here, and don't get up."

* * *

Dean flips through television channels while Sam's at the pharmacy. He isn't wearing glasses or contacts, so he can't make out the fuzzy images on the screen, but the noise itself is comforting. He wants nothing more than for his brother to return and for this persistent bone deep ache in his chest to disappear. His meds always make him feel better, even if he's nearly dying of pneumonia or battling bronchitis. His body craves it...

Sam practically barges through the door and scares the shit out of him in the process. He rips open the bag with the blue inhaler inside it and holds it against Dean's lips. He presses down on the canister, and Dean's sure he has never experienced a better feeling in his life. The oxygen is pure and sweet, and it's as if all of the pain he's in vanishes instantly. He coughs lightly into his cupped hands and breathes in and out with so much ease that it's amazing.

Without any warning, Sam lays down next to him in the bed and wraps his arms around his waist.

"Sam...umm..."

"Shh, Dean. It's okay. It's okay. I'm so sorry."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, Juvdelink25! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	48. Guest (III)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)

Happy Easter!

Is anyone else as scared for the season finale as I am? Jared and Jensen are saying it's the most depressing since the season five. What do you guys think is going to happen?!

Guest requested: "It seems like people forget Dean is allergic to cats, so how about Sam and Dean are working a case or something, and Dean gets exposed to some cats and his allergies go all crazy, leaving him a sneezy, sickly mess, and Sam has to take care of him. Any time frame is cool." I really need to include human Cas in this one just so I can get over my wanting to include him so badly. I'm sorry if that bothers you, Guest. I'll try to make it mostly with Sam, though.

This one will be set in between seasons 8 and 9, so it's AU. Plus, I love bunker fics! Plus some sick Cas because I'm craving it. Sorry if that bothers anyone. The more whump the better to me, though! Goes hand-in-hand with the "summer cold" I had Cas talk about in one of my earliest chapters!

Warning for more f-bombs because Dean's angry about the cats!

* * *

Guest (III)

* * *

_June 12, 2013_

"Are you seriously going to watch TV all day?" Dean says, plopping down in the recliner, rocking back and forth freely. He's becoming increasingly bored during their 'snow day' in the middle of Goddamned June. Sam is in the middle of searching for a case, and Cas has been binge watching some Food Network show since dawn. _Cupcake Wars?_ Seriously, what the hell is this shit? Dean lunges forward and grabs the remote from the smaller brunette.

"Hey!" Cas shouts hoarsely. "I was watching that!"

Dean shakes his head. "Not anymore you aren't. I can only handle so much girly crap before I explode." He changes the channel to the much more acceptable _Pawn Stars_ since it's the only half-decent thing on. Neither the ex-angel nor his brother needs to know that he just finished an episode of _Dr. Sexy, MD_ back in his room. Like he said though, there's a certain amount of it the show he can watch before he starts to go insane and forget that he's Dean friggin' Winchester.

Cas huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He rolls on to his side on the couch. Sam and Dean like to keep the air conditioning within the bunker at a ridiculously frigid temperature, so, while Sam's walking around in shorts and a t-shirt and Dean's barefoot and shirtless, Cas is wearing his red jacket and jeans. It doesn't help that there's a ceiling fan blowing above him. Being human is still extremely new to him, so coldness is a feeling he has yet to experience until he moved in here with the brothers. And, to be honest, he doesn't like the cold. At all.

"You need a blanket?" Dean asks, watching his friend squirm. It's near the start of summer, but it is a 'snow day.' He guesses it makes some kind of ironic sense that Cas is cold. "I think we've got one around here somewhere," he suggests, standing up and beginning to search for it. Normally he drags an old quilt of out the hall closet when he watches TV late at night. Sam pads over to both of them as Cas curls in tighter on himself.

"You might not wanna get too comfy. We gotta go," Sam states.

Dean hears Cas muffle his moans into the pillow. That's it. It's June. Dean places his hand on his forehead and cringes. Ouch. The ex-angel flinches beneath his touch, and Sam and Dean exchange glances. The older Winchester nods at the younger, who runs off to get medicine and a thermometer. Dean kneels down in front of his friend. "Where do you hurt at?" he asks quietly. He's not sure how he's going to react to being ill for the first time.

The new human shrugs. "Everywhere," he mumbles.

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"I've never felt like this before, Dean. It's...strange. My nose is even leaking out brain matter."

With that statement, the blond hands his friend a few tissues from atop the coffee table.

"What do I do with these?"

"You blow your nose. Like this," he says, mimicking the job, even though he's snot free.

Cas's nose must really be filled with some shit because Dean has to hand him the box of Kleenex, and he damn near uses the rest of the three-fourths of the way filled container. Even once he's done, he still seems congested. Just by pure observation and being a big brother for thirty years, he notes that, besides the obvious fever and the runny nose, he seems to have a headache by the way he keeps pinching up his face and a sore throat by how awkwardly he's swallowing.

Sam returns with not only meds and a thermometer but with the humidifier that they found in the bunker and comfy pajamas. The brunette helps change him into the new pants and long sleeved shirt while the blond doses him up with NyQuil and Tylenol. Once Cas cuddles back into the pillows and blanket, Dean hands him the remote, but he's fast asleep before he has time to change the channel back to girly ass _Cupcake Wars._

"It's urgent," Sam says randomly, entirely throwing Dean off his train of thought.

"What?"

"The case. Poltergeist in Missouri. It's not too far, and the family's in real danger."

Dean nods, but then looks down at his sick friend. He bites his lip. The Winchester brothers only leave each other to do solo hunts when it is absolutely necessary, like the time Sam broke his ankle and was holed up for six weeks or when Dean was recovering from double lung pneumonia a few years back. The cases were emergencies. But, since this is the first time in his human state that Cas has been like this, Dean feels especially guilty for having to leave.

"He'll be okay. We'll be back soon enough. Probably by tomorrow afternoon if we go now."

The blond nods again. "Yeah. You're right. Change into something less gay, and meet me in the car."

* * *

By the time they reach the Donahue household, Sam is fast asleep in the passenger seat, head nuzzled between where the seatbelt and window meet. He's snoring quietly, and Dean feels terrible for waking him up, but this is an emergency. The blond shakes the brunette's shoulder just once before he opens up his eyes groggily, yawning and stretching out in the Impala as far and as much as being 6'4" will let him.

"Ready?" he asks his brother.

"Let's do this," Sam responds.

They've skipped the whole "FBI thing" for this case since it's a dire situation. Dean got Sam to switch into jeans before they left, even though he wasn't too thrilled since it's still over one hundred degrees outside even at five in the afternoon. He hates Kansas/Missouri weather for this reason. He's from the Midwest, obviously, but the heat and humidity is plain disgusting. During the summer, he can't walk two feet outside without being drenched in sweat and uncomfortable.

So, with his plain grey t-shirt clingy indefinitely to him, he marches up to the Donahue's front door, knocking loudly. Sam trails behind him, drenched in salty liquid and grimacing in the bright sun. A middle aged man with spikey hair resembling Dean's only much darker answers the door with his curly haired wife next to him. They usher them inside quickly. And, even though they're here for a poltergeist, Dean is insanely grateful that the A/C is kicking full blast.

And that's when both he and Sam notice the cats. Five of them. Three are immensely overweight, but kind of cute if they weren't demonic to Dean's immune system. The other two are playfully pouncing on each other, stepping one another's heels; must be brothers, he figures. The first sneeze of many erupts as soon as one of the fat cats begins to rub its grey body across his jeans. Shit. Motherfucker. Dammit. And then another sneeze follows.

Sam watches as his brother begins to scratch the hell out of his lower arm with his right hand. Hives. Already. Great. He's going to have to finish this one up solo because, in true Dean Winchester fashion, he's sneezing up a storm, and Mr. and Mrs. Donahue are glaring like they're crazy. Well, they hunt fucking monsters and demons and _their_ poltergeist haunting and have been since 1983, so he guesses, what the hell, they already _are_ crazy.

"Is he okay?" Mr. Donahue asks.

"Clearly not," Sam mumbles. "I'm sorry. I'm gonna take him back out the car real quick. I'll be back." And with his sneezing brother in tow, Sam heads back out to the Impala. Dean is sweating, sneezing, and squirming uncomfortably. The younger Winchester tucks him into the passenger seat, grabs the first aid kit from the trunk, and gives a packet of Benadryl to his brother, who is clawing at his cheeks so hard that they're bleeding. "Dean, stop scratching."

Dean's eyes are burning viciously, so he digs his fingers into the orbs and pulls out the contact lenses, letting them fall somewhere, anywhere, in the car. Sam huffs in annoyance, but, at the same time, his heart is stinging with worry. He hasn't been exposed to cats in quite some time, but, combined with the head cold he suffered from during those few days, he damn near lost his mind. He needs to get him back to the bunker, into the shower, and asleep before the worst of it hits.

But, first, he has to deal with this fucking poltergeist.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, dude. Try not to scratch so much," he pleads, shutting the door to the car lightly. Dean doesn't listen though because, well, he's the big brother, and Sam can't boss him around. His hands shake as he claws his short nails into his flesh, wincing as the hives burst open, and blood begins to flow freely between his fingers. He can't stop though. His eyes are fucking _burning_, and no amount of itching is making matters any better.

He loses track of time somewhere between sneeze number fifty-nine and the twelfth hive he's broken open. His skin is marred with blood and is tinged completely red, and he can't see a God damned thing in this car. It's hot as fucking Hell in here, and Dean is at the point of hyperventilation. He grabs his inhaler from his jeans pockets, presses down on the canister, but it's like no relief is being supplied. He does it again, and he feels a bit better.

Sam returns on sneeze number one hundred and seven. Dean's eyes are swollen, the whites of what he can see are beat red, and he's still rubbing at his bleeding and broken skin. Dammit. He comes around to his brother's side of the car, dabs some alcohol on all the spots he's ripped open with his fingers, and carefully covers them with two huge gauze pads. He also places anti-itch cream over the hives, and he notes that Dean relaxes almost instantly.

But that doesn't stop his incessant sneezing, sniffling, and squirming throughout the hour ride back to the bunker. Sam's back is killing him from being thrown around, and he's definitely going to have to stitch closed the wound on his shoulder. His first priority, though, is obviously taking care of Dean. As he draws closer to home, Dean is staring out the window and is still wide awake, physically trying not to scratch anymore.

Dean nearly jumps out of the car as soon as he puts it in park. He collapses on to his knees in the garage and promptly vomits up an ocean tide of yellow and orange all over the concrete and a bit on himself. Shit. Where the hell did that come from? If Sam were to take a wild guess, it's from the panic and constant icky feeling floating throughout his system. Dean sneezes four more times, hiccups, pukes more, sneezes six times, and then allows Sam to drag him into the bunker.

Cas is thankfully still asleep on the couch. The only difference is that the TV is turned off, and the blankets have been kicked to the floor. Sam hoists his brother into his arms when the sneezing begins to knock him over and carries him to the shower. "You'll feel better soon, buddy," he whispers. He turns on the shower water, strips Dean, and practically shoves him in. He watches Dean pitifully sink to the floor, pulling his knees toward his chest.

Sam quickly runs to their living area to cover the ex-angel back up and is pleased that he's snoring quietly and doesn't seem like he'll be awake any time soon. He then sprints to Dean's bedroom, picks out a pair of plaid boxers and an oversized t-shirt. He can't leave his brother in there by himself for too long with how badly he's scratching at himself. When he returns, he's pleasantly surprised that the shower water is off and that Dean's wrapped a towel around his waist.

However, the twinge of happiness vanishes when he gets a good look at the other hunter. He's sickeningly pale, and the hives have broken out all over his cheeks, neck, back, and stomach. Some of them are still bleeding, but, for the most part, he seems to have cooled down a bit. Sam almost contemplates taking his temperature with how wilted and lethargic he's acting. But, instead, he helps Dean get dressed, snuggles him into bed, and then realizes something.

He now has two sick people to look after by himself.

* * *

_June 13, 2013_

"Why is Dean red?" Cas asks in a rasping voice from his spot on the couch. He hasn't moved from there other than to "pee" once while the brothers were away on a hunt. To be honest, he hadn't even heard them return. He woke up this morning to Sam typing away on the computer in the recliner next to him. Now, Dean is occupying that spot, reclined all the way back with his bare feet poking out of the quilt on top of his body.

He has these splotches everywhere. His skin is riddled with them, and, to Cas, it looks "weird." He hasn't been human for very long, but he knows that this is not what one would constitute as normal. And it's also not normal for humans to sneeze and sniffle as much as Dean has done within the last few minutes. Cas, despite being sore and achy, pushes himself into a sitting position to glance at his friend, who is breathing heavily.

"Allergic reaction," Sam says as if it's simple enough. The younger Winchester was really torn last night, but he wound up sleeping next to his shivering and sneezing brother because he was way more worried about his throat closing up in the middle of the night. It's not that he doesn't care about Cas being sick; it's just that Dean's situation was a bit more volatile and dangerous. He ended up having to give his brother his inhaler more times than he can count.

"To what?" the smaller brunette asks.

Sam gently pushes his shoulders back down and situates him to where he's lying on the pillow once again. While Dean is a bit rougher, Sam's help is much gentler than what he originally thought it would be. "You still need to rest," he says at first. The taller man then gauges his body temperature with a small device that he has to stick under his tongue. "101. Pretty rough, all things considering."

"What's wrong with Dean?" he presses again.

Sam shakes his head and chuckles slightly. Cas is almost as protective of Dean as Dean is of Sam. "He's allergic to cats. The house we went to yesterday had five of them, and he didn't take to it too well." Which is like the understatement of the year, he tells himself. He is thankful, though, that Cas, while he isn't well, seems to be in much better condition than his brother. Dean is now snoring loudly and scratching at his gauze covered arms in his sleep.

"Will he be okay?" Cas asks.

Sam nods. "He'll just be a mess for the next few days."

* * *

_June 14, 2013_

"Hertshchoo!"

"How am I supposed to hear my show with you sneezing like that?"

"Well I'b sorry, Cas. I'll jusb go sbeeze sobewhere else."

"I think it's quite disgusting how humans are capable of such phlegmy actions."

"You and be both, dude."

* * *

_June 15, 2013_

"Htchshoo!"

"I will kill you, Dean. This is absolutely ridiculous."

"Hehhtchshoo!"

"When exactly do I get my brother back?"

"As soob as I kibck your ass for dragging be ibto that house."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Guest! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	49. gracewright (I)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)

gracewright requested: Dean comes back from Purgatory and has trouble eating anything, so he loses a ton of weight before Sam notices." Given how shaky their relationship is during almost that entire season, I could easily see this happening. I feel like the writers could have played on this a lot and make Dean, for once, the weaker and more vulnerable one. Afterall, I think PTSD, insomnia, and eating issues would be a common thing after experiencing Purgatory.

* * *

gracewright (I)

* * *

_October 15, 2012_

Dean struggles just watching Sam devour the ribs on his plate. The sticky meat will, undoubtedly, be stuck in his teeth, and he can't even imagine the taste. He gulps and pokes around at his BLT with a stray French fry that's burnt. He's still shocked that Sam, his green leaf loving baby brother, is eating ribs with so much power behind his bites. The younger Winchester must really be starving, and the older wishes he could say he felt the same way.

But, the truth is, food is no longer appealing to him. Since he got back from Purgatory, his diet is pretty much nonexistent, and he pukes up almost everything he puts in his system a few hours later. He doubts Sam has noticed, especially since he harping on him for, once again, barely touching his plate. He managed to choke down three fries and two bites of his sandwich before he started picking at it and destroying what he assumes would have been a good meal otherwise.

Each time he takes a bite of whatever it is, he stomach immediately coils. He does his absolute best to hide his discomfort and pain from his brother; Sam doesn't act like anything is wrong, so why should he? He watches Sam sign his name – or rather whatever fake alias he's on now – on the dotted line and sighs in relief. Dean is so ready to get out of this joint and go back to sleep at the motel they've been staying at for the past few days.

They just finished up their hunt about two hours ago, and, since he has basically no energy, all Dean has been thinking about is falling face first into bed. He should tell his brother what's going on with him: how he can't hold down food, how he would just flat out refuse to eat if he could, and how badly his stomach hurts currently. He ate dirt and leaves down in Purgatory since there was nothing that could actually sustain a human's appetite.

After what felt like years of hunger pains, Dean eventually got used to it to a point where he no longer felt his stomach growl. Because of that, though, he lost about twenty-something pounds down there. His leather jacket sagged off of him, and he had to puncture three extra holes in his belt to hold his pants up. Now, he's been pack for nearly two weeks, and he's sure he's lost at least ten more pounds because his smallest clothes are extremely baggy.

He has three reasons as to why he thinks Sam hasn't noticed yet. The first is that they're still not exactly on the best terms. Yes, it's been getting better, and his trust for his little brother grows everyday the more he proves he has his back. The second is that he wears such heavy clothing that, if he weren't himself, he most likely would not notice either. The third is that Dean always orders something and at least attempts to eat, praying his appetite will come back.

Since he's been back on Earth, he has yet to feel hunger pains, and he longs for that sensation. He longs to be able to eat an entire twelve ounce steak in one sitting without getting nauseous just pondering it. He wants a bacon cheeseburger with extra ketchup dripping off the sides. And, more than anything, he wants a big slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top. But, he can't even eat tomato soup without upchucking it a while later.

"You alright?" Sam questions.

Dean snaps himself out of his trance. "Yeah. Why?" His voice is still something he struggles processing.

Sam shrugs. "You, like, zoned out or something."

"Oh. Sorry. Let's get out of here," he says, pushing past his now standing brother to exit the diner. He slides into the driver's seat and taps his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. His stomach is already doing somersaults, and his entire body just aches from fatigue and hunger. He chews his bottom lip, but just that action is enough to nearly send him over the edge. Dean puts his baby in drive and hopes he doesn't vomit and/or fall asleep while driving.

* * *

The air conditioning in their motel room is cranking full blast. Dean instantly shivers the second he walks through the door behind his brother. Here's the thing he never realized about not eating: he never imagined he could possibly so cold, tired, and achy. Generally, he feels like shit everyday and all hours of the day. Sure, he skipped a few meals as a kid so Sam could eat (okay, more than a few), but he more than made up for that as an adult.

Dean drops his bag and, like he said, falls face first into bed, not bothering with his coat or boots since they will trap some of his remaining body heat in. This is worse than any illness he's ever had in his life. Being sick goes away after a couple days; this isn't disappearing. With each passing day, he eats less and less and feels worse and worse. He shivers and tries to snuggle his cheek into the pillow and breathes deeply to expel some warm air.

"Hey," Sam says, hitting his boot lightly with his hand. "Shower first, stinky."

The older Winchester doesn't have any energy left inside of him. He's completely empty. _Please notice, Sam._ He wants nothing more than to things to go back to normal where Sam will crawl into bed with him in the middle of the night to get comfort or warmth or whatever. He misses his brother, which he can presume makes this entire situation of his even worse. He can't believe that part of him actually wants Sam to notice how bad of a path he's heading down.

Somehow, he manages to lift himself off the bed, nearly tripping over his dizziness. Sam steadies him, and he mumbles a barely audible "thank you" before grabbing extra warm and thick pajamas and heading into the bathroom. His appearance is shit compared to his old looks. Too skinny, too pale, too sick looking to possibly be attractive to a woman. Gross. Dean shivers violently as he removes the four layers of clothing he's wearing.

He turns the shower water to as hot as it will go, but even that doesn't warm up his core all the way. His skin is blistering, and his cheeks are extremely red by the time he exits. His fingers and hands tremble so hard that he has a hard time getting dressed. By the time he leaves the bathroom, the temperature in the room has grown much, much colder. Dean doesn't bother saying a word to his brother; he simply burrows beneath the comforter.

"Dude," Sam whispers, shaking his back once turns away and curls in tightly on himself.

"Hmm?"

"Are you feeling okay?"

"'m fine."

And that answer seems to, oddly, satisfy him because he sighs loudly, but doesn't say anything else. Hot tears, the only hot thing he has on his body, spill over his cheeks, and he tries to hide the hiccups that often accompany his crying jags that have been happening more and more often. He feels another comforter or blanket being draped over his form, and he could throw up. This is the first truly_ Sam_ moment he's experienced with his brother since he's been back.

Dean even manages to smile through the pain when Sam ruffles his hair.

* * *

_October 16, 2012_

Sam would give anything for his brother to talk to him again. It's been a mostly comfortable silence lately with very little tension, but he figures it's because Dean simply doesn't have the energy to get mad at him anymore. Sam gets it; he truly does. He abandoned his brother. They had this talk almost the second Dean got back from Purgatory. There's a lot of hurt he still has to mull through and wounds that will probably never heal.

But _this..._ _This _isn't normal.

Dean is so quiet, sullen, and almost depressed. He barely speaks, hasn't laughed in ages, and tires extremely easily. The last one he understands a bit more, though. Dean won't tell him anything about Purgatory, but he assumes that he most likely didn't sleep much, if at all. Humans can't survive without slumber, but Dean Winchester isn't an average person. He survived on much little numerous times, but _this _is still freaking Sam out to his core.

He ended up turning off the air conditioning in the room, despite his own hotness in the middle of the night. Dean's teeth were chattering so forcefully that he could hardly stand it. It wasn't because it was annoying or anything like that; it was because it panicked him a lot. Sam's heart thumped in his chest while he waited for his brother to actually fall into a deep sleep, which was obvious to spot once he started to snore quietly and breathe deeply.

Now, it's Sam's turn to work on fixing his brother back up to working order. He's clearly traumatized, and he will barely touch his food when he eats. Sam's tried to give him some space, but, after watching him last night into the wee hours of the morning, he's tired of standing by. Dean deserves more than that from him. This is the man who raised him on his own, even though he's only four years older than him. To Sam, he's always seemed much older.

"Good morning, bro," Sam whispers, mimicking last night's slight back rub. He can literally feel every bone in Dean's back through his long sleeved shirt. Dean is sickeningly skinny, and that's the first thing he's going to address. He needs to start out with light meals and work his way back up to eating steaks and cheeseburgers again. And Sam refuses to drop the ball this time, vowing to show his worried brother just how much he does indeed care about him.

"No," Dean mumbles, snuggling his face into the pillow.

"Yep. Up and at 'em." Normally, he would tug the pile of blankets away from him, but he knows better than that given his erratic behavior. He waits for Dean to sluggishly begin to make stiff movements. When he sees him attempting, but failing, to remove himself from beneath the pile, Sam helps. Dean has lost so much muscle mass and stamina that it's actually alarming and worthy of his absolute and utter traces of panic circulating through his system.

Sam hands him a pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt, and a flannel to go over it. He knows how cold and shaky he's been, but this is just part of step one. Once he gets something nutritional in his body, the tremors will dissipate. His plan is to order soup from a local deli and have it delivered, especially since he checked his brother's temperature in the middle of the night, and it's not quite where either of them wants it to be.

"Need help?" he asks, noticing how Dean somehow managed to get his arm through the neck hole. It's the first time he's seen him shirtless; he can count his ribs. How much weight did he lose? Sam figures it's at least thirty pounds. Dean isn't short by any means, but, compared to him, everyone is small. But, the "shortness" and stockiness has always been a prime trait of his. He's never been model thin, but he's never been anywhere close to "fat."

It's the first sign of actual emotion Sam has seen in his brother. He's so defeated and humiliated that a tear or two spills down his flushed cheeks. He doesn't say anything because that would make this situation worse. He knows Dean better than he knows himself and acknowledging moments like these with words is bound to make him retreat even further. Instead, Sam helps him get the shirt straightened out; Dean handles the flannel and jeans perfectly.

Dean sniffles and wipes away the fallen tears. He brushes his teeth, shaves, and combs his hair while Sam orders their food. He's going to have the same thing as his brother to not set off his sensitive belly with a strong scent. Sam is just trying to play his cards right, and, hopefully, Dean will be back on track soon. If he can get him to start accepting food and acting like a regular person again, Sam is sure he's going to make a recovery.

Afterall, he is Dean Winchester.

* * *

By time their soup arrives nearly an hour later, Dean is fast asleep, curled into bed with the remote clutched tightly in his grasp. Sam almost doesn't have the heart to wake him. Watching Dean actually at peace is something he used to enjoy (in a non-creepy way) as a kid; his big brother is constantly stressed and secretly panicking over the massive and miniscule things. The light snores and the baby face beneath the clean-shaven look he's acquired make it harder.

"Hey, buddy," he says, trying not to whisper this time. "Soup's here."

"Please let me sleep, Sam," he mumbles quietly; he's on the verge of tears again.

And it breaks his heart in two. "As soon as you eat this, you can sleep for the entire day."

Dean's eyes light up for a split second, but then Sam imagines he realized he has to eat in order to earn his reward. He doesn't help his brother to the table since Dean would kill him normally. He feels the key here is to play it safe and attempt to treat his brother as if things were typical here. The older Winchester doesn't ever admit he's ill until the very end or unless Sam catches it and forces him to stay in bed before it's too late for his own good.

With each bight of the lightly salted chicken noodle soup, Dean grows more and more queasy. Sam can tell by the way his face is devoid of all color and how awkwardly he's swallowing. He drops the spoon into the container after six bites and wraps his arms around his torso. Shit. Sam pulls kind of harshly on his brother's shirt and sets him down in front of the toilet, where he vomits up a sea of broth violently; the soup doesn't get a chance to settle.

Dean is whimpering, exhausted, and quivering uncontrollably. Sam, however, knows that feeding him again could potentially strengthen his stomach's tolerance, and that's what they're aiming for here. The blond glares at him like he's lost his mind when he sits him down at the table and tries to spoon-feed him the rest. He clearly doesn't want to be an invalid, so he grabs the spoon and feeds himself. The second time around, he seems more relaxed.

His brother finishes three-fourths of the soup without another hitch. His eyes are drooping closed at the makeshift table, and Sam decides it's time for him to hold up his end of the bargain. Dean did exceptionally well; he would have let him go to bed if he managed through half the soup. He just prays he won't wake up and expel the progress they've made. Little by little, things will get better, and Sam won't stop until he fixes his brother entirely.

Sam tucks him into bed and smiles when Dean grabs his wrist, finally allowing him back in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, gracewright! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	50. gracewright (II)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thanks for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! =)

Did anyone see the Easter video that Misha posted? So cute! Maison took losing her eggs like a champ! You should look it up! =)

gracewright requested: "Dean starts having seizures, and Sam and Jody Mills have to take care of him." I've heard that a concussion can be a trigger for seizures, so I think I'm going to base this around that concept. Plus, one can never have too much sicky Dean of any type. This is a new and interesting request, but I've never written a seizure fic before, so this will be entirely new to me. As always, I apologize beforehand if it's terrible garbage.

I'm going to set this in season nine, but, once again, it's unrelated to what's happening.

Sorry for this being on the shorter side compared to my other fics. This was a tough one.

* * *

gracewright (II)

* * *

_December 14, 2013_

Sam has been keeping a meticulous eye out on his brother, who was kicked in the head by some demon dick two days ago. Immediately after he promptly stabbed it in the throat with their knife, be bundled the unconscious Dean into the Impala and began the hour drive back to the bunker. By the time they arrived, he had stirred in the backseat, his eyes bloodshot and temple badly bruised. Concussions are probably their most common injury, afterall.

Dean's certainly had better days, but rolling on to his side and staring at the Christmas tree he and Sam put up in their living room area helps lift his spirits. Sam has been watching him all morning, especially since he's running a fever and isn't talking as much as he should be. He seems to be in awe of that damn green tree covered in ornaments they found deep within their home and the multi-colored lights Dean picked up from Walmart in the weeks before.

He isn't paying much, if any at all, attention to the TV. Even through his looking at the tree, Sam can tell he's under the weather and in pain. There are blotches of fever flush extending across the bridge of his nose, and his hair is in a destroyed and sweaty state. Sam sighs from behind his computer screen in the recliner, closing it once his brother's eyes begin to droop closed. He pads over to the couch where Dean's sprawled out on his stomach beneath a blanket, kneeling down in front of him and inspecting the glazed over look in his eyes.

"How're you feeling?"

To his surprise, his brother grins goofily. "Tree's pretty, Sammy."

Sam nods. "Yeah, Deano. It's 'pretty' alright. Can you tell me the date?"

A crucial part of examining concussions is to assess any confusion brought on by the injury. If Dean were to fall asleep with a bad enough head trauma, he could dissipate into a coma and never wake up. That's what has always scared the living hell out of him, even if it were him that was hurt. He imagined and dreamed of never opening his eyes consciously again and vowed silently to never let that happen to neither Dad when he was alive nor Dean.

Dean shrugs. "December somethin' or an'ther."

"What about your name?"

If Dean can't answer this question, it is most definitely time for the hospital. So far during the previous days, his answers have been slow and sluggish, but today's seem to be at least more accurate. No matter what though, he has always been able to tell Sam his name. It's usually slurred terribly, and he sounds drunk every time, but it's better than not being able to vocalize one of the most basic premises of being a human life form.

"Batman."

Sam pats his shoulder gently and chuckles. "Alright, man. Get some rest." As he goes to stand up, Dean grabs at his jacket sleeve and pulls him in closer, wrapping his arms around him and engrossing him in a huge hug. He's breathing deeply into his neck, and Sam can feel the trembling and the fever radiating off of him in waves. Sam hugs back and eventually lets go to curl in behind his brother on the couch, snuggling in tightly and spooning him.

"N' chick flick mom'nts," he says, despite just having bear hugged his baby brother.

"Too bad," Sam replies, smiling.

* * *

The younger Winchester awakens to the sounds of his cell phone buzzing loudly in his pocket and banging on the front door of the bunker. He wipes the sleep from his eyes, scrubs his hands down his face, and tries to get up without disturbing his brother, who is practically glued to him and breathing rather heavily. "Hello?" His voice is deep and exhausted sounding as he trudges up the dozen or so steps to the door at the top. He looks out the peephole.

"Hi, Sam," Jody Mills says on the cell phone and while the brunette is looking at her face through the hole.

Sam hangs up and opens the door and is, once again, enveloped in a hug. He pats her back and grins brightly. He's a whole foot taller than her, so it makes it kind of weird. Dean has always called him a Sasquatch for these reasons. When Jess was alive (he shudders), he was extremely taller than her. But he didn't and still doesn't mind. "Hey, Jody. How are you?" he asks while they walk down the stairs side by side.

"I'm okay. Just thought I'd drop by to see how you guys were doing since I was in the area."

The brunette leads her into their living and dining room area, gently pushing her chair in once she sits down. "Do you want any coffee or anything?"

"No, I'm okay. So, how are you boys?"

Sam shrugs. "Um, we're alright. We just finished up dealing with a colony of demons a couple of days ago."

"Where's your brother?"

Sam motions over toward the couch his brother is sprawled out on. He's snoring quite abrasively and smacking his lips in his sleep. For a brief moment, he wonders what he's dreaming about, but, since it is Dean he's thinking about here, it's better that it remains a secret. "Out like a light. Concussion," he states briefly. He figures he's bound to wake up with the talking. It's weird because he can sleep through TV and music blaring, but he can't through actual talking.

"Ouch. He okay?"

Sam shrugs once again. "As okay as Dean can get."

* * *

After hours of talking about anything and everything, Sam offered to let Jody spend the night in one of their numerous spare bedrooms. Each one comes with its own bathroom, so she has all the privacy in the world. Plus, the bunker is safer, cleaner, and smells better than any motel she could find around this area. Jody accepts and runs off to get ready for bed. It's a little past midnight, and Sam should really be getting his brother to sleep in an actual bed.

This behavior is extremely strange for his brother having a concussion. The fever isn't weird since it's on the way lower side of the spectrum, but the complete and utter exhaustion is definitely unlike him. He never sleeps this much; Dean can typically survive on four hours of sleep every two days. Of course, though, since they moved into the bunker, those hours have gone up slightly. Sam's own sleep schedule has even changed based off of their move. They have more downtime just because they don't have to travel to motel after motel for a few hours of rest.

Dean has barely moved. The only change is that the fingers on his right hand are brushing the concrete floor. When he goes to shake his back, he notices how badly he's visibly trembling. He places his hand on his forehead; sure, it's a tad bit on the warm side, but he would expect his temperature to be around 103 with how much he's shaking. This only feels like it's somewhere between 99 and 100. Barely anything to bat an eye at.

Only Dean doesn't wake up when Sam pats his back. His heart thuds into his chest, and his pulse pounds into his ears. Shit. Shit. Shit. Sam kneels down in front of him and lightly taps his cheek. "Dean!" he shouts. No response. Nothing. Just more quivering. When he sees the blood beginning to pour from his brother's chewed open lip and presumably tongue, he has an "aha moment." Seizure. Fuck. He rolls his brother on to his side frantically.

He loosens the blanket from around him, throwing it to the floor. Dean's shaking subsides after less than a minute. Sam knows that if it lasts over three minutes, he has to be rushed to the hospital. The hospital and the Winchester brothers don't mix well together at all. The familiarity of their faces has died down since the Leviathan fiasco a few years back, but he still doesn't want to risk it unless it's absolutely necessary. His panic alleviates just a bit when his eyes pop open.

"Shh, bro... Don't talk just yet."

The moment Sam begins to run to the kitchen to grab a wet rag, Jody comes out in her pajamas with wet hair and slippers on her feet. "What's going on?"

"Dean had a seizure," Sam says, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice.

Jody drops the towel in her hands on the floor and sprints over to the younger man. Dean is trembling hard, but it's not seizure-like. His lip is split open and bleeding a bit rapidly. She maneuvers herself behind him on the couch, lays him on his side again, and pillows his head in her lap. She's had a seizure or two in her life before, and they're never pleasant afterword. "How are you feeling, Dean?" she asks quietly, running her hands through his hair.

Sam returns a second later with ice wrapped in a washcloth. He holds it to Dean's lips and lets the blood soak into it. He's lucky he doesn't need any stitches. He isn't sure of the magnitude of the seizing fit, but it, in comparison to what he's seen and what Dean has told him, seems more on the moderate side instead of being serious enough for a hospital. Sam is internally panicking, and he's sure he's about to toss his cookies all over the place. Is it safe for him to talk?

"Dean," Jody coaxes.

"Mmm..." No actual words. Only that.

"Buddy," Sam tries. "Can you talk to me?"

When Sam was fourteen, he had his first seizure after being pushed down a mountainside on a hunt with his dad and brother. His concussion was a lot like Dean's is currently, and Sam remembers Dean later telling him, once everything was all said and done, that he could barely speak. He thought that he had brain damage (or even more than he already has, according to his big brother) and was going to be a vegetable for the rest of his life.

And, even though he was joking around about it, he could tell just how muchhe had _scared_ the life out of his brother. He poked fun at him constantly, but all it takes is the biting of his lip or how he glances out of the corner of his eye for Sam to know. Dean's got tells for everything, and Sam knows them all. So, he let his brother handle coping with Sam's bad situation in whatever way he needed to. He hopes Dean is able to formulate at least something.

"S'mmy... Head hurs'..." he slurs.

The younger Winchester nods and chokes back the tears.

Thank God.

* * *

_December 15, 2013_

Sam is curled up in his brother's bed beneath the covers he threw over both of them last night. Jody watches as he snores lightly and mumbles incoherently every now and then from the doorframe she's leaning against. He fell asleep with Dean last night, too panicked and worried that he'll start seizing once he loses consciousness. Nothing bad happened, thankfully, and Dean is currently sitting at the kitchen table when Jody pads her way down the hall.

He's reading some kind of novel, one hand turning the pages and the other holding his head up. There are deep, dark smudges beneath his eyes and a fever flush across his cheeks. He's rocking some great bedhead, and he's bundled up in Sam's winter coat and a blanket draped over his legs, despite it being almost _tropical_ in here to Jody. She places a glass of water and a banana in front of him as she sits across the table from him. Dean doesn't look impressed.

"This is all I get?"

"You need to build up some strength, skinny."

"And rabbit food will do that how?"

"It's a fruit, not rabbit food. Just shut up, and eat it."

Dean eyes her carefully.

"I'll go wake up your brother."

The older Winchester sighs heavily and peels the banana, cautiously taking a bite. Jody Googled seizures last night, and it isn't unheard of for concussions to cause them. There's a chance he was having mini, nearly undetectable ones the entire time he was asleep on the couch. She knows he's going to be sore and incredibly lethargic for the next few days. They are going to have to monitor him closely and keep watch over how he's responding to basically being locked down.

"Your brother really loves you, Dean," she says. She feels like he needs to hear that for some reason.

Dean nods and gulps. "I know."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, gracewright! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	51. South of Eden (II)

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the amazingly brilliant television show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and requesting! I truly appreciate it! =)

South of Eden requested: "Dean wakes up in the hospital from a punctured lung, or something, and Sam isn't there (for some reason or another), so Dean breaks out AMA and tries to find the motel that his brother is hunkered down in. Maybe have some random person see him struggling, because he is only running on 10%, and try to help the wounded, and maybe sick, Winchester back to his brother." Poor Dean! That would really panic him!

I'm going to set this one in early season one (AU).

Time for me to create an OC for the first time ever in a fanfiction. Let me know how it goes.

* * *

South of Eden (II)

* * *

_November 23, 2005_

The first thing Dean is aware of when he wakes up is the pain radiating throughout his right shoulder and back. The agony shreds throughout every fiber of his core, and his insides are quivering with uncertainty. His eyes widen once he sees the IV in his left hand and the heart monitor he's attached to. Things keep beeping. He feels an oxygen cannula beneath his nose. Shit. How in the freaking hell did this happen? Why is he in the hospital?

As he tries to sit up, he notices how sore his entire torso is. And then he notice that his right arm is nuzzled protectively in a sling that also straps behind his back. He can't move or feel his fingers; he guesses that may be a good thing. His vision is blurry, and his head feels as though it weighs two tons. This is the instant that something becomes weirdly unusual for him: Where's Sam? Sam is always here once he wakes up in the hospital. Always has been.

Dean is just about ready to rip his IV out when a blond nurse walks in to stop him.

"You can't take that out just yet, Mr. O'Malley. You need the extra fluids."

He's just about ready to quip with "up yours" when a more important question arises. "Where's my brother?"

The nurse shakes her head. "I'm sorry, sir. He was here a while ago. I'm not sure where he went."

Dean could literally throw up. His mind begins to cloud with panic, and his heart thuds loudly in his chest. His fingers are trembling badly, and his breath keeps getting caught in his throat. Where is Sam? Why would he leave? What if something got him? He tries to calm down, but his mind is spinning. Waves of horror swell over him, and he goes through all of the possibilities. And his conclusion is that something terrible has happened to his brother.

He has to save him.

And, in true Dean Winchester fashion, he does manage to pull out his IV. Blood drips all over the blankets and the hospital gown. The nurse has already left and said that she would be back in a few minutes with more pain medication. As lovely as that sounds, Dean only has one option here. He scribbles a note out with his left hand to let them know that he will still pay for the hospital visit and care with the insurance belonging to a Mr. Jack O'Malley, which just looks like a friggin' kindergartner wrote it and somehow finds a way to get his soiled clothes from whatever happened to him on. His jeans are ripped to shreds at the knees, and his leather jacket is missing.

He's limping out of the hospital with a bum knee and arm in a sling with his vision blurring with each and every step. By the time he's outside in the brisk November air, he's gagging and puking into a garbage can. He doesn't have time to stop though, even though his chest is on fucking fire. Breathing. Breathing. Dean has to get his breathing under control, or he will pass out. The ache in his shoulder, back, and chest is way more than excruciating.

Punctured lung, maybe? Hell, Dean's not even sure what _is wrong_ with him, and he supposes that could be both a good and bad thing. He just knows everything is an achy mess. But, he has to get to the first motel in the listings for this stupid town. Where the hell is he anyway? He can't see any damned street signs; he's not sure if it's from a concussion or if he's not wearing contacts. Dean's heart thuds louder and louder in his ears. He has to find Sam.

* * *

It's a little past six in the morning when Nat Conley parallel parks his grey SUV outside of an oddly busy café downtown. He checks his watch; he's got a little under an hour before he has to listen to Ian's voice penetrate his ears for the next decade. It's the day before Thanksgiving and the marching band still has practice for the parade tomorrow. Between the kids and his schedule that seems to be getting busier with each brutal command Ian barks, his eyes are swollen and feel as though they should be glued shut by now.

Nat waits in line for what seems like hours before he makes his order, which is simple enough. All he wants is a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin to hold him over. He figures that, since he has just a bit of time, that he'll sit down and actually enjoy himself. Julie woke up at two this morning screaming her tiny baby head off. Nat can tell someone one thing: his daughter has one _hell_ of a bladder. That was the third onesie she peed through that evening.

And then Henry began to dig in the plants the second he woke up. He's four years old and in pre-school, but yet he wants to smear dirt all over the way. Not to mention, the cat pissed on the carpet, and he and Maggie got into a fight. Nat's morning has been way less than pleasant, and, quite honestly, he never knew so much shit could happen within a matter of minutes. He can't even think ahead to the rehearsal because his mind is stuck on his wife.

He shouldn't have yelled at her. It's not her fault he's cranky and annoyed, anyway. He guesses it's no one really, unless he can effectively blame Ian. Nat thinks his case could hold up in some form of court for harassment and verbal abuse. He's thirty-two years old, greying early because of his boss, and can barely squeak in a word at his job. Ian is a massive asshole of a control freak, and he takes the whole "head band director" title way too seriously.

So, when Nat sees a man stumbling through the street looking slightly more presentable than homeless from his window seat at the café, he doesn't want to deal with it. That is, until he sees the blond tumble toward the ground, vomit erupting from his esophagus. Holy shit. He panics so much that he grips his hands on the wooden table; his knuckles turn white as he bites his cheek. The man has bandages on his face, his hand is bleeding, and his arm is cradled in a sling.

Where the hell did he come from?

It's unusual to see this in such a quiet town. Despite his own apprehensions, Nat practically jumps up from his seat, grabbing his coffee on the way out. Even though his own heart is nearly thudding out of his chest in worry and concern, he places his hand on the man's overly warm back. His cheeks are bright red, his dark blond hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, and he's breathing rather heavily, his breath hitching in his throat every few seconds.

"Take it easy," Nat says, rubbing his back reassuringly. He's done this for his wife and kids more time than he can count.

The man glances up at him with glazed and bloodshot eyes. "'m fine. Don't gotta do this..." he slurs.

Nat shakes his head. This guy should be in the freaking hospital or at least at home in bed if he's one of those types. He's burning up beneath his touch, and he looks like he's bound to pass out any second now. Nat sits down on the ground next to him, despite the fact that people are staring at the two of them like they're nuts. He doesn't pay any attention to it. Due to his hefty breathing, Nat gently pushes the man's head down in between his knees to help with the whole fainting fiasco he's about to have on his hands here.

"Hey, man. We gotta get you to the hospital."

"Jus' got outta there..."

Nat's eyes widen. "Then why the hell did you leave?"

The blond man peers up at him with glassy eyes. "Gotta fin' my brother."

"Did he leave you on the street?"

"Gotta fin' him."

"You're one of those types that's not gonna give up, aren't you?"

The man nods, but doesn't say anything else. Nat has dealt with these kinds of people before, more specifically Ian. He's the master of determination and won't stop until he has what he wants. Last year during marching band, nearly their whole band, including himself, got violently sick from practicing out in frigid temperatures despite the principal telling them not to participate in any activities for the day. Ian will do anything, and that's the kind of vibe he's getting from this guy sitting next to him on the side of the road one random day in November.

"I'm Nat," he says, not bothering shaking his hand or actual formal introductions. And, if this guy is not going to go to the hospital, Nat is sure as hell going to make sure he gets to that brother of his. He guesses that he could die or get mugged or robbed or God knows what out here. He notices how hard the man is shivering, so he tugs off the beanie covering his dark bedhead and places it gently over the man's ears. He gets no response from this except...

"Dean," he says with a hoarse voice.

"Well," Nat says. "I guess it's nice to meet you, given the circumstances."

Dean, the blond man beside him, stares him straight in the eyes. He looks like utter shit rolled over three times, and he seems no older than twenty-five, maybe even younger. Nat brushes off his khakis as he stands up, offering his hand to the guy. His hands shake as he grasps on to them, and Nat realizes, especially with the sling and how pale he looks, that he's going to be practically carrying him. Once standing, Nat discovers he's a couple inches shorter than him.

_Great. A giant._

Nat settles Dean down in the passenger seat, shrugs off his thick winter coat to place it over him, and immediately cranks up the heat. Dean is still trembling so hard he can feel the vibrations beneath his ass. Nat gulps. "Um, do you have an idea on where your brother is?" he asks quietly, as if to avoid any and all confrontation. Jeez, this guy looks like Ian in a physical sense and gives out that same bravado, but he seems leaps and bounds kinder and more soft-spoken.

"Adventure Inn..."

Nat nods, knowing exactly where that is. It's on Grand Avenue, and they're not that far away from it. But, it's Chicago the day before Thanksgiving, so it could still be a while. Nat puts the SUV into drive and listens as Dean's breathing begins to even out and his quivering starts to subside little by little. Nat wonders what in the world happened to him and why he's so banged up, so he decides to just ask during the long ride. "So, what happened? If you don't mind me asking..."

"'m n-not too sure."

_What? You're a mess! How could you not be sure?_

"What about your brother? Does he know that you're out here?"

He shakes his head. "N-No."

Dean looks like he's on the verge of tears, so Nat, trying to be the people pleasing person he strives to be even in the face of Ian, decides it's best to change the subject. This guy seems to talk about his brother a lot, so maybe that's a good point of conversation. Afterall, they are, of course, stuck in traffic, and it could be up to thirty minutes before they get to the motel. "Your brother got a name?" he asks. Nat just doesn't want to pry too hard.

"Sam," Dean says. He seems a bit better with the conversation. "Annoying and pain in the ass, but that's him."

"Yeah, I know the feeling. I've got two little brothers myself, Andrew and Ryan. Needless to say, I'm not too used to privacy."

They continue talking about their brothers, and Nat learns that Dean and Sam are taking a road trip together just as a little getaway. Dean's four years older, Sam went to Stanford, and their dad is a mechanic. Nat told him about growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, about his parents divorce, and how Andy and Ryan are really little piss ants sometimes. But, the common thing between the two of them is that they're both big brothers. And, just by looking at him, Nat knows Dean would give his life for his brother's in a heartbeat.

By the time they actually pull into the parking lot of the Adventure Inn, Dean has fallen asleep in the passenger seat, head nuzzled into the window. His torso is hidden beneath his puffy coat, and he actually looks peaceful. Nat was thinking that he could pass out or die in this car, which are incredibly morbid thoughts, but the distinct and sharp whistling and wheezing associated with asthma is present in his breathing. Andy has asthma, so he knows how it sounds.

He ever so gently taps Dean on the shoulder, who jumps awake instantly, groaning in pain. He grips at his right shoulder with his still bleeding left hand, knocking the coat away in the process. Nat actually sees tears swelling in his eyes, and he knows that he has to get this guy to his brother right now. Maybe Sam will have a better idea on how to handle this than he does because Nat, personally, would take Dean straight to the hospital.

"Which room?"

"D-Dunno...Didn't ge' that far."

Nat bites his lower lip. "Uh, do you want me to go ask?"

Dean nods. "But ask for Mark Hamill."

"What? Like _Star Wars_?"

Another nod. Okay, this is really freaking weird. This guy said his brother's name was Sam, not Mark. Why would he be using a different name? Nat chews his fingernails until he gets to the front desk of the motel, praying to God that this isn't some kind of hoax and that his car and wallet he left in it would still be there once this was over. _Please don't let me be that big of an idiot._ But, it turns out that there is actually a Mark Hamill checked into room twelve.

And, thankfully, his SUV and wallet are still there, as well as Dean.

He parks in front of room twelve. Dean looks woozy, and his face is devoid of all color.

"Want me to go get Sam?"

Dean nods, gulping visibly with tears in his eyes once more.

When Nat knocks on the door, he certainly doesn't expect another _freaking giant_ with a _gun_ to answer. He's insanely tall, towers way over Nat, and has shaggy brown hair. He does look like a college kid. And, more importantly to Nat, why does he have a gun? What kind of first reaction to knocking on the door is that? "Um, I've got your brother Dean in my car..." he mumbles a bit nervously because of the _freaking gun _pointing at his gut. "You're Sam, right?"

Sam nods and instantly pushes past Nat, running over to the side that Dean's located on. Nat goes up to help him get inside the motel room, but he's blocked off by the two brothers holding on to each other for dear life, despite the fact that Dean only has one working arm. The blond's sobbing his heart out into the brunette's sweater. Sam rubs his back and then begins to pull him out of the SUV. Sam wraps Dean's left arm around his shoulder, while Nat supports the rest.

They lay him down on the bed, and Sam props up the casted arm with a pillow and then the apparently injured leg on the same side. Shit, this guy is really banged up. Nat's worries about triple when Sam grabs his arm; he's actually shaking in nervousness because this situation is _really weird_. Mostly, though, it's because he's never quite encountered a man Sam's size. He looks incredibly threatening and intimidating. And he thought Ian was bad...

"Thanks," isn't the response he's expected to receive. "I was looking everywhere for him."

Nat nods. "Um, he said that he was trying to find you."

"Figures Dean would sign out AMA in the hour that I'm gone. I just came back here to pack some clothes for him."

Nat smiles briefly.

"Listen, man, if you want, I can give you some money or something? You really went out of your way, and I appreciate it more than you'll ever know. Not many people would have stopped liked that."

He shakes his head and waves his hand. "No way, dude. I'm just happy he'll be safe with you."

Sam flinches almost excitedly. "Dude, I'm so sorry," he says. "I'm Sam, by the way." He extends his hand.

Nat reciprocates. "Nat."

"Well, thank you for this, Nat. You're a good guy."

With that, he turns around to leave, knowing full well that the man he helped today would be okay in the hands of his gigantic younger brother. He would hope that if Andy or Ryan were in the same situation as Dean, someone would help them too. As a big brother himself, he can see just how much Sam really does mean to Dean and that their relationship is really a different one. He turns around when he reaches the doorframe.

"Hey, Sam," he calls. "Your brother... He really loves you."

And, he doesn't know why, he just felt like he needed to hear that.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, South of Eden. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting =)


	52. HiddenintheShade

**Author's Note:** I do not own the brilliant television show_ Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! =)

HiddenintheShade requested: "Could you do a story based in season 4 where Dean gets really badly hurt on a hunt but pulls his "push through and hide it" thing? Sam doesn't notice until it's like really infected or something because he's because a self-righteous ass (I didn't really like Sam in season 4. I think it was an assholish move to trust Ruby over Dean)." Amen to that last part! No wonder why Dean trusted Benny and Cas over Sam in season eight!

This is set in between "It's A Terrible Life" and "The Monster at the End of This Book."

* * *

HiddenintheShade

* * *

_March 30, 2009_

When Dean wakes up in a cold sweat and screaming at the top of his lungs, Sam is nowhere to be found. The blond pants heavily, gripping at his aching chest with shaking hands, trying his best to regulate his breathing. Alistair. Fucking shit. He sits up in bed, takes a few trembling puffs off of his inhaler, and listens to the clock on the wall tick and his teeth chatter against each other. He crosses his arms over his chest and pushes back the tears swelling in his eyes.

Sam. That stupid, douche nozzle of a brother has vanished to go on his escapades with that demon bitch. Again. The nightmares occur daily, and no amount of whiskey can calm his nerves. But, Sam always leaves. He doesn't think his brother notices how he can hear the door click closed, even in his exhausted state of mind that's constantly being tortured. He wonders if he even realizes that he yells himself awake nearly every early morning.

Dean heads into the bathroom on quivering legs to take a leak. Jesus Christ, he can't even piss without contemplating what kind of mess his brother is getting himself into. Sam has been so...cocky these past few weeks. He thinks he's a better and smarter hunter than Dean has ever been because he's weak and gets in the way. Dean isn't quite sure that's not the demon blood talking, but, then again, maybe he is standing in between their job.

Since the confrontation with Alistair, he's been sore, not eating as much, and trying his hardest not to snap at Sam. In order to accomplish acting like he's okay, it requires a lot more focus than one might thing. It's not that he's a super talkative guy in the first place, but he always used to feel _safe_ talking to his little brother. Now, he has to shut himself down before he lets him back in, mainly because he honestly just doesn't trust him because he's not acting normal.

The older Winchester flips on the television, rolls on to his side, grabs his glasses, and settles down on some action movie. Most nights, he ends up falling back asleep before Sam returns. He doesn't try to stay awake; he doesn't want to see him after he comes back from gallivanting with Ruby all night. But, at some point, he loses track of time in the movie, which turns out to be a good one. That doesn't happen too often, especially on shitty motel cable with three channels.

When the door begins to jiggle open, Dean doesn't bother hiding the fact that he's awake. There's no point in doing so. Sam tiptoes in, doesn't let the keys jingle together, and takes off his jacket softly. But, when he notices that his older brother's eyes are open and the TV is on, he glances over sheepishly at him. The look is enough to make the blond sick to his stomach. _Why do you keep hiding things from me, Sam?_ It only proves he's doing something he shouldn't be.

"Hey," Sam says, almost too quietly and nicely. "What're you doing awake?"

Dean shrugs. "Woke up, and couldn't fall back to sleep." He effectively hides the worry and hurt in his voice. Sam doesn't push any further, and Dean thinks that's because he's nervous about what exactly he's thinking. It's not fair. He has done _anything _and_ everything_ to keep his brother safe. He went to _Hell_ for him, and, when he came back, Sam was gone. And, no matter what he says, Sam gets angry and doesn't listen. He may be weak, but he isn't stupid.

What really bothers Dean is how far Sam is willing to go to hide hanging out and exorcizing demons with Ruby. Sure, Dean himself hides about every emotion he possibly can, but that's only so Sam doesn't have to put up with it. And the older Winchester wishes, more than anything, that his brother would tell the truth and stop destroying their lives. Often times, Dean gets himself so worked up over it that he pulls a Sam Winchester and vomits due to extreme anxiety.

"Do you want to get going now?"

The blond shakes his head. "No. Not really." And, with that, turns off the TV and bundles himself beneath the comforter that smells faintly of mold. He's confident that Sam will drop the subject and is somewhat relieves when he sighs faintly and drops back into bed himself. It's a little past four in the morning, but at least he might get three or so hours before both of them wake up. When shivers wrack his body, though, Dean's not so sure anymore.

If he weren't so pissed at Sam, he swears he could have cried when he begins to snore loudly beside him.

_Please notice what you're doing to yourself, Sam. I don't want you to get hurt._

* * *

"Let's go, Dean," Sam says, chucking a pillow from his bed at his older brother, who has kicked the covers away in his sleep and is only lying there in plaid boxers. Dean moans and nuzzles his face tightly into the pillow. His bare foot twitches, and Sam throws yet another pillow at him. "Dude, I'm hungry," he whines. His flexing exercises with Ruby have been going really well, and he's pumped for tonight. He just hopes Dean isn't awake this time.

When he came in last night, it really panicked him. He knows Dean thinks he's turning into a monster or something, but he's doing this to kill Lilith; he's the one person left on this earth that can do this. Dean is too involved with the whole "I've been to Hell" thing, and it's really affecting how he does his job. So, Sam's stepped up to the plate and is trying to conquer this problem on his own because it's obvious his brother can't handle it.

He's thankful Dean wound up not saying anything to him about where he's been or what he's been doing. And he's also happy he wanted to go back to sleep as opposed to heading to a different town for a new hunt to keep them occupied before the big storm with Lilith. He knows it won't be too long until he gets to use his powers to smite her ass, and it will feel freaking glorious. He can practically taste Ruby's blood still, and he can't wait for his work to pay off.

When his brother finally stirs, he has deep bags beneath bloodshot eyes, and his face is devoid of all color. He's a greyish tint, and there's a bit of a red flush across his cheeks. Shit. Is he sick? But, when Dean bounces up and gets in the shower without a hitch, he begins thinking differently. He'll know for sure if something is up with him (like there always seems to be lately) once he gets out and is dressed. Sam sits down at the table and waits.

Dean, thankfully, emerges wearing faded blue jeans, a black undershirt, and a blue and white flannel with the sleeves rolled up. Okay, he's not dressed like he's sick, so they're good to go. Sam begins to pack up the Impala while Dean laces his boots. They climb into the car without a word; in fact, the older Winchester drowns him out with Metallica before he has a chance to say anything at all. It's not that he really wanted to make small talk anyway.

They're on their way to a new hunt. It's a new day, Dean doesn't seem angry, and, for once, Sam feels okay about this. His brother pulls over for breakfast pretty quickly during their drive, and he's definitely doing a "pee pants dance," so he's assuming that's why. Even though all he really wants is more of Ruby's blood (God, does he crave it), he'll settle for pancakes or something like that. Dean rushes off to the bathroom, and Sam opens up the vile of blood he keeps in his pocket when he makes sure his brother is inside the building, licking up drops fallen into his hands.

Once that is said in done, he beats Dean to their table. His brother definitely looks way less pale after taking a leak, and he seems vibrant enough to pass off as okay. If Dean thinks Sam can't see how bad off he's been, then he clearly doesn't know the younger Winchester very well. He moves a bit slower since Alistair's attack, and he's overall a bit quieter. He gets that this will sound pretty mean, but he's glad about that last part. He hates it when Dean complains about "how messed up" Sam is when all Sam feels is power and glory.

And he will take down Lilith to prove it to his biggest critic.

* * *

Dean isn't sure when it happens. All he knows is that both of his hands are on fire. His knuckles are scraped open, and his fingernails are already turning purple. Shit. He tries to bend his right wrist ever so slightly, but he can't without recoiling in pain. Then he tries his left and receives the same results. What did he do to himself now? When he attempts to push himself back on to his feet, his hands can't take the pressure, and his vision goes entirely black.

He falls back on to his ass, and he wipes away the burning tears streaming down his cheeks. _Jesus Christ, Dean. Be a friggin' man._ He checks his surroundings, even though he's dizzy, and his hands hurt like a son of a bitch. Okay, so he's in the woods. A forest maybe? And he's sitting on the ground by a tree. Did he brace with his hands to break the fall? If there weren't blood dripping into his eyes, he would guess that. Or perhaps... He has no idea what the hell happened.

"Dean!" he hears his brother shout. They must have gotten separated. "Dean!"

When the older Winchester tries to speak, no words will come out. His entire body feels like it's in shock, and he's quivering uncontrollably. His can't lift his hands from his lap, and he still can't freaking bend them at all. He chews the inside of his cheek and tilts his head back toward the dark sky. _Hurry up, Sam. I think something's wrong._ He's never been in this kind of situation before. He broke his leg a few years back and was still able to hobble to the Impala. Now, both of his hands feel like they're completely dead and burning alive at the same time, and he can't get up.

"Dude, I've been looking everywhere for you!" Sam says, coming into his line of vision.

"Nice to see you too, Sam..." Dean mumbles. His brother sounds... irritated.

"C'mon, man. Let's get out of here before you get flung around _again._" When he puts emphasis on the "again," Dean immediately feels his insides shrivel up. Is that what all of this anger is? Is it because he keeps screwing up and getting hurt? When he thinks back on the things that have went wrong recently, from his bad shoulder dislocation to his face being beaten in by Alistair, he knows they're his fault. _Maybe Sam's right? Maybe I am weak._

He's so mentally exhausted that his first reaction isn't to scream at his brother; it's to just ignore him. This typically happens when he is in the process of completely mentally shutting down. When he was a kid, he went through several "silent spells" where he would clam up and stop talking for weeks with no end in sight. He would still do his chores, hunt, train, and take care of Sam, but he would do it without talking and drove his brother nuts in the process.

Sam extends his hand to hoist him up, but Dean ignores it, using his injured hands instead. This time, he doesn't lose his footing, but he does have to bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. They walk back to the car in silence; it's obviously comfortable to Sam, but Dean feels tense. He doesn't even want to be in the same general area as his brother because of the way he's acting. With how many times Dean has saved Sam's ass, he should know differently.

Dean has been protecting Sam all his life. The younger Winchester probably has no idea how many times he _starved_ for him. He used to go nearly a week with only two small meals to save the nutrience for his little brother. Dean's sure he stunted his own growth in the process. Who knows, maybe he would have been taller than Sam had he actually ate? He used to wipe his butt as a baby, potty trained him, taught him how to read and write, and made him who he is.

And, yet, Sam treats that like it's nothing, like now that's special because he's powerful. Dean just got back from Hell; it hasn't exactly been the easiest time in his life. He drinks too much, barely sleeps, and has reverted back to hiding every emotion possible. Dean wishes that, for once, Sam would pull his head out of his ass and _actually_ pay attention to how something is affecting him. It's Sam's worst quality; his selfishness really stands in the way sometimes.

By the time they make it to the Impala, Dean's legs are quivering violently, and he absolutely cannot bend his hands without nearly crying and passing out in pain. He subtly just bites his lip as an afterthought; Sam doesn't pay attention to these tells anyway. Who cares? Dean feels like he should just go back to Hell or drop of the face of the earth. What makes him deserve this kind of life? What makes him the obedient son? Why does he continue to do everything for his brother?

Instead of questioning any further, he slides behind the wheel of his baby and drives with his hands revolting against him. His hands, in this instance, are kind of like him: a failure. Sam thinks he's weak, even though he's the one who is clearly beginning to lose it. Dean doesn't sigh like he normally would. _Grow a pair, Winchester. Stop being such a princess. _And that's what he does, even though his hands are bruised and bleeding and a sickening shade of purple.

_Who cares?_

* * *

_March 31, 2009_

When Dean wakes up in the morning, he's painfully aware of only one thing: he still can't bend his wrists. He doctored the cuts last night and ended up wrapping both of his hands, telling Sam that he just cut them open in a few places. Dean honestly thought he had only shocked the shit out of them since he couldn't lift them or anything; he didn't know that this level of pain would carry on into the next day. Judging by how gross they look, this isn't going to end well.

His wrists are swollen at the bones on the side and are so blue and purple that they actually gross him out by looking at them. He still can't lift them from his lap, and no amount of icing them in the middle of the night when Sam was off gallivanting with Ruby helped. His bottom lip trembles as he bites down on it. Sam returned a few hours ago and is dozing off in bed. Dean thinks he can change the bandages around them quickly without him noticing.

Dean walks into the bathroom, clicks the door closed quietly, and begins the painful process of unwrapping and rewrapping. His fingers will barely move because they too are swollen and purple. He thinks he may have broken a few of those. But, he pushes through the pain, all while dreaming of the taste of hard liquor on his tongue. Chances are, whiskey is the only thing that will keep him sane during the next few weeks while his injuries heal.

He wonders how he'll be able to tie his shoes or grip a gun without his brother noticing just how painful it is.

"Dean," Sam says, opening up the door.

_Did I really forget to lock it? Son of a bitch._

"Dude, move. I gotta pee."

And when Sam shoves open the door, his eyes widen, and his jaw drops. Dean sheepishly smiles, but he doesn't try to hide what's already out in the open.

"What the hell happened?!"

Dean shrugs. "Messed them up last night is all. Don't worry 'bout it."

Sam looks like he could faint. "Don't worry about it? Dean, your wrists are completely purple!" He goes to touch them gently, and Dean immediately pulls away, glancing at him like he's lost his damn mind. Because he has. The older Winchester no longer trusts his once caring brother enough to check over his injuries. Sam's probably going to make fun of him some more for being weak, and it's the last thing he can possibly picture hearing right now.

"Back off, Sam," he retorts, anger evident in his voice.

He pushes him out of the way and heads back into the main part of their motel room. He sits down on his bed and lets his hands fall into his lap.

"Dean, you need a hospital," Sam tells him as he follows. "Those are definitely broken."

The blond nods. "Fine. I'll go." He jumps up to grab his keys with uncooperative and agonizing fingers; Sam stops him, pressing the heels of his hands firmly into his shoulders.

"No way! You can't drive!"

"Stop telling me what I can and can't do, Sam! You're not my fucking father."

"What the hell is your problem? I'm just trying to help you!"

As Sam gets closer, Dean backs up, his nostrils flaring. "Get the hell away from me."

"Or what? You'll punch me?"

Dean shakes his head and feels his insides almost disgustingly and disturbingly relax. "No. You know what? Fine. You drive."

And he walks outside and hops into the passenger seat of the Impala.

* * *

Dean's sporting two blue casts over his wrists from knuckles to elbow. Three fingers are broken on his right hand. And, during this time, he doesn't say another word to Sam. He doesn't show how hurt he actually is, both mentally and physically. Sam wonders what he said that was so upsetting. This is the kind of shit Dean pulls when he's at his most vulnerable and genuinely needs help. But, Sam is so not in the mood to help his brother. Again.

But, since Dean is far-gone and high on pain pills, Sam helps him into the motel room. He strips him into just his boxers and a t-shirt. His brother won't look him in the eyes. Tension riddles every space in the room, and Sam almost loses it right then and there. Why does this always happen to him? Why can't Dean grow up and accept the fact that he's doing all of this for the greater good? Afterall, he's the only one who can stop the damn Apocalypse.

"Want to get under the covers?" Sam asks, watching Dean tentatively sit down on his bed.

He shakes his head, but doesn't say anything else.

"What about more meds?"

No response.

"How about a pillow to elevate your hands a bit? I could put an ice pack on them to relieve some swelling."

Nothing.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, HiddenintheShade! Thank you for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	53. Tamara510

**Author's Note:** I am sad to inform that I do not own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters. It all belongs to Kripke.

* * *

I just wanted to thank you all very much for reviewing, reading, and requesting! =) You guys have no idea how much I appreciate it!

Just a random sidebar: I am so excited for next Wednesday! I can't stand these two week waits! Does anyone else feel my pain, haha?

Tamara510 requested: "What about a Dean illness or injury set during one of their separations? Sam finds him and helps him, but Dean thinks he's hallucinating Sam being there since Sam hates him for whatever reason. I love the stories where Dean opens up about his feelings." I love these kinds of stories too! There's so much room for possibilities, and Dean opening up doesn't happen as often as it needs to. Poor guy needs to learn to communicate.

Set between 9x10 "Road Trip" and 9x11 "First Born."

* * *

Tamara510

* * *

_January 19, 2014 – Kansas City, Missouri _

Dean's motel bathroom looks like something straight out of a horror movie. Only, instead of blood being splattered everywhere, it's his vomit. It's reddish orange, chunky, and smells of spaghetti and rotten milk. He's missed the toilet pretty much every time because he can't run that fast, so he's resorted to laying his head on a towel in the floor. He's wearing nothing but boxers and grey wool socks, too hot to mess with actual clothes.

His puke, somehow, is on the ceiling. Despite not wearing his contacts, he can make out the faint, blurry colors on the white plaster. There's a puddle beside him on the tile, splotches on the bathtub, and a boatload of the gooey shit in the sink. He curls himself tighter into a ball; his skin aches and tinges with his persistent movements. His head feels double the size of what it should be, and he's ridiculously dizzy, even though lying on the cold, hard ground.

The frigidness of the motel room is nice, overall. He's ninety percent sure he's running a high fever because that's the only time air ever feels good to him when he's under the weather. He's not sick or anything; he's just not at his best. Truth be told, he couldn't manage to find a hunt today. The words on his laptop screen were jumbled, and his fingers wouldn't cooperate during the research process. He decides that it's the only day that will ever happen.

He and Sam have, well, parted ways for the time being. Sam's pissed at him for having Gadreel/Ezekiel/whatever the hell that angel dick's actual name is possess him, despite it being the only thing keeping him alive. The way things went down back there...really he can't describe it. Dean's sticking with the whole "I would do anything for you" mantra; it's the only thing he's ever known. He grew up protecting his brother. How could Sam expect any differently?

And now his brother hates him. Dean suspects hearing his words of anger being spouted yet again is the reason why he's thrown up at least a thousand times, or at least that's what it feels like. He hasn't been feeling one hundred percent since he was told harshly to just go by his own flesh and blood. So, Sam's all cozy in the bunker, and Dean's in some stupid motel in Missouri that smells not only of his own sickness, but also of mold and wet dog.

He shivers violently and tries to snuggle into the towel beneath his head. Cold sweat is pouring into his eyes, but his body... Jeez, it's on fucking fire. The air he's breathing is stale and humid, and he winces as another chill rushes through him. He's not even cold. That's what he doesn't understand. He wishes Sam were here. He wishes his only family still loved him enough to take care of him when he's like this. He wishes this towel he was laying on were his brother.

But Sam hates him. And Dean guesses he can understand why. He's the worst big brother in the universe.

* * *

_January 19, 2014 – Lebanon, Kansas _

Sam is tossing and turning in bed when he gets this pit in deep within his stomach. Something... Something's not right. He's been alone all freaking day. It's way too quiet in here without Dean. Even though his brother isn't particularly loud, especially when he's in his room and listening to music on his new noise-canceling headphones, it's just knowing that he's in there that makes him feel safer. Here lately, prior to their fight at the pier and Dean leaving, the older Winchester was passing out way before him. Sam found comfort in quietly cracking open his door and seeing him sprawled out on his stomach, snoring softly with his iPod clutched in his hand.

Now, Dean's room is empty. It has been for a little over five days. The "Batcave," which he was starting to call their home, is no longer that without his brother. And, if he weren't so damn hurt, he would call Dean and tell him how he really feels right now. But Dean doesn't understand, and he never will. He's sacrificed so much for him, and it sickens him. Sam goes through the list of each time Dean has practically given himself up for his protection and safety.

Number one is New Years 1993. Sam got sick with pneumonia and could barely walk. Dean carried him through a blizzard over twelve miles until they reached a hospital. As a result, Dean got pneumonia himself and hypothermia. Sam was only ten, and he didn't quite understand what had happened until much later in life. This was the first truly "stupid" thing he's done to make sure he's okay, but, out of all of them, this is definitely the most minor.

The second on the list is some time in the summer of 1998 when Sam was fifteen and broke his leg on a hunt. Dean, who was also badly injured, had to carry him, once again, to a hospital. By the time he reached there, he collapsed from heatstroke and was beyond scorched from the penetrating sun. Dean could have died right then and there; his heart could have given out, and that would be it. Sam, on the other hand, would have been fine.

Number three in the series of unfortunate events is Sam's death. He was stabbed in the back by Jake years upon years ago now, but it's still stings every time he thinks about it. Dean sold his soul for one more year on Earth, as long as it meant Sam came back from beyond the grave. This was the turning point for the younger Winchester, who began to realize that _this_ not wanting to lose his little brother and live alone was a major issue for Dean.

Then this instance puts them at number four. Sam gets it; four isn't a big number. Compared to a normal human, who would most likely never do what Dean did once, that's a lot. And it's way more than necessary. Sam had made his _peace_ with this scenario. He was going to die, go to a better place, and everything would be over. He would no longer be a hunter and finally be able to do as he pleased, even though it was only in Heaven as opposed to on Earth.

Sam can think of four major occurrences, but he can count literally dozens of other seemingly insignificant sacrifices. Dean dropped out of school to continue to raise him into a young man, as opposed to a small boy. He cooked him dinner every single night because he just doesn't know how (and still doesn't, he might add). When he was falling asleep, even at fifteen, Dean would rub his back and tell him that everything will be okay, especially after a fight with Dad.

Dean is an idiot to think that he doesn't understand. More so now than ever, Sam gets _why_ he let that demon possess him. But it's not fair. It's definitely not fair. And, for that, he's angry. He feels like he has a right to be. It's his life, and Dean doesn't get to just make the decisions anymore, especially the giant ones like life or death. He _accepted_ his fate, and he thinks that's the reason why it hurts that much more.

But, on this cold January night, his stomach hurts, and his head swims with visions of something terrible happening to his brother. He can't shake this terrible feeling, and it's enough to drag him out of bed. Quickly, he throws on jeans, socks, and boots, forgetting about changing his long sleeved shirt. It's midnight, and he should be in Kansas City, where his brother is staying, in about four hours. If he pushes it, maybe three.

Sam hops in the rental car and speeds off into the night to get to the source of his sick stomach.

* * *

Vomit pools around Dean's head, matting into his soaking wet blond hair. He doesn't have strength to lift his head up; his back is unbearably sore from sleeping on the tiled floor, and his stomach is killing him. He can feel his muscles tensing and untensing over and over again. The throw up gets in his nose a bit, and he blows it back on to the soiled towel. His teeth chatter, and his body no longer feels hot or cold; he feels empty. Like... nothing.

He sniffles and manages to roll on to his side, coughing harshly. His lips hurt, and his chest is quivering harshly beneath his skin. Inhaler. Where is that thing? He doesn't have any energy to search, especially since he can't even move his head. More puke comes up in stringy, yellow biles on the floor that stings the back of his charred throat. Dean has trouble focusing on breathing, which is hard enough to do when he's fully aware and able to control himself.

Dean lets the throw up dangle from his chin. His hands won't work, and his mind is so unbelievably fuzzy. And then he hears the bathroom door wriggle open. And he's not sure who it could possibly be. He didn't order pizza or Chinese or anything. He feels a warm hand on his shoulder that he can't shake away. His skin hurts so badly. So fucking badly. _Please make the hand move. Someone, please help me._

"Whoa, buddy," he hears.

And that's when Dean entirely loses everything. He somehow, God only knows how, finds a way to sit up, using the bathroom wall to brace himself up. This guy... Well, he looks a lot like Sam. Only it can't be Sam. Sam doesn't love him anymore; in fact, he hates him. He wants nothing to do with his weak, bottom feeder big brother who keeps resurrecting him and destroying his life. Sam... he can't be here. There's no way in hell this is his brother.

"G'away," Dean mumbles, but it sounds like nothing to his ears.

The hand returns to his shoulder, and Dean tenses up.

"You're no' m' brother..."

"Dean, it _is_ Sam. We gotta cool you down before you fry your brains."

"No! You're not Sam!" Hot tears spill over his flushed cheeks like a leaky water hose as he pulls his knees up to his chest. Salty liquid pours in between his bare legs and on to the floor. More phlegm comes up, and he has no choice but to expel it on to himself. There's a wet washcloth being placed on his neck, and he feels like he could jump out of his skin. "Stop! Go away!" he screams, his voice completely and utterly wrecked.

"Dean," the person who's not Sam coaxes softy. "It's Sam, your little brother. It's me."

"Can't be."

And then he feels himself being hoisted up on to... somewhere. The shower water begins to run, and he's reluctantly stripped from his boxers and socks. Sam... he's not here, but this guy is kind of helping him in some way, he guesses. He just wishes it were his brother. No one quite knows how to take care of him like Sam.

"It's me. It's me, Dean. And you're going to be okay."

The cold water feels magnificent over his tight skin for the first few minutes. And then his teeth start to chatter, and his cough rattles his chest. Shampoo stings his eyes. The scent of pineapples fills his burning nostrils. "Sam!" he shouts. "Sam!" And then there's that stupid fucking hand on his back again. What the hell is up with this guy and his hands? Where the hell is his brother? Oh yeah... Sam hates him. He's gotta get used to that.

"Shh... It's Sam."

"S'm hates me."

* * *

By the time Sam bundles his much cleaner brother into heavy pajamas, Dean is dry heaving over the side of the bed. Sam's heart twinges in sympathy. They'll be hospital bound quickly if this doesn't slow down. The younger Winchester catches the bile in the trashcan and quickly snuggles up next to the extremely ill blond and tries to hold him close. Dean squirms and wriggles away, nearly falling off the mattress and into the floor, but Sam catches him during that too.

"Relax, Dean. You gotta calm down."

"Who are you?" he mumbles feverishly.

Sam pulls his brother on to his chest. He's quivering, sniffling, and he can feel the tears begin to drench his shirt. "It's me, buddy."

"No," Dean says. "Sam hates me, y'know?"

The younger Winchester cringes once again when he repeats it. Dean's been muttering that incoherently the entire time he's been here. He can't believe that he would possibly think that. He's angry and upset, and, yes, it's at his brother. But, never on his life, he could _never_ hate Dean. He gets bothered because that's just how life is, but there is no reason why he should be contemplating the nature of which Sam hates him this much.

"I don't hate you," he informs quietly, holding him closer.

"I know y'don't. It's Sam. He's the one who hates me."

"Dean," Sam says a bit more harshly; Dean tenses beneath his touch. "I don't hate you. You're my big brother. There is nothing you can say or do that will ever change the way I feel about you. Yeah, you're a giant pain in the ass, but I wouldn't be here today without you. And, believe me, I know it was hard for you to make these decisions, and I do appreciate them... It's just that I made peace with my fate. And then you come swinging in and saving me again."

The older Winchester shakes his head into his chest. "Tryin' to save you, S'mmy..."

Sam runs his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, I know, big guy. You need to rest now, though."

Almost as if he's scared of him leaving, Dean clutches harder on to his shirt, so hard that his knuckles turn white. More tears drip from his eyes, and Sam can feel the trembling begin to start up again. His breathing gets heavier, and Sam's heart thuds so deeply against his chest that he's sure he's bound to have a heart attack. Dean needs sleep and to stop throwing up. And, while Dean doesn't say another word, Sam knows what he means.

"I'll be right here when you wake up. Don't worry; I'm not going anywhere."

Dean nods and moves himself closer, wrapping his hand around Sam's. "I do love you, S'mmy. You're my baby brother."

This time, it's Sam that nods. He kisses the top of Dean's head softly. "I know, buddy. I love you too. More than you'll ever know."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry if that was too much at the end... I hope you enjoyed it, Tamara510! Thanks so much! =)


	54. Left Sharker

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazingly wonderful television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

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Thank you all for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! I greatly appreciate it, and it really means a lot! =)

Left Sharker requested: "I know you've already done a story similar to this, but I was wondering if you could do one where Dean has an anxiety attack (Tony Stark style) after coming back from Hell. If this is too much like the one you've already done, then maybe it could be set after or during Purgatory (with Cas and Benny)?" This one hasn't really been done before, so I'll keep it with the return from Hell. And, by the way, my heart lit up when you made the Tony Stark reference because I am a huge _Iron Man_ nut. I do love RDJ!

I'm going to set this later in the season to give more of a picture of just how deeply this is affecting Dean. AU. Sam is not a dick.

Fair warning, I'm in the mood for fluff!

* * *

Left Sharker

* * *

_April 15, 2009_

"Are you planning on sleeping all day, dude?" Sam asks, glancing down at his wristwatch and then back at his brother. He isn't sleeping yet, but he's halfway there. Dean is curled on to his side and still wearing pajamas, eyes half-mast and mouth hanging slightly open. When he doesn't respond, Sam chucks a pillow at him, which just ends up with him grunting, moaning, and rolling on to his stomach to block his ears with said pillow. "Dean!"

"Whad'ya, Sammy?" His voice is sluggish. Sam pads over to him and begins to pinch his flesh lightly. "Quit it, bitch!" he says, halfway between playfully and annoyingly. Sam's stomach is growling so loudly he's sure the people a few doors down can hear it grumbling away. Neither of them has eaten since lunch yesterday, and Sam figures they would have been up and out of here hours ago. Dean has been under the weather for a few days; he guesses that's the reason why.

"I'm starving and need to stretch my legs," he whines. "Let's go get you a burger or something."

Dean shakes his head. "N'thanks. You can take the car though."

And Sam swears that, at that moment, he could literally shit a brick. Dean _never_ just volunteers for him to take the Impala for a spin. He's always had this fear that Sam will continuously "douche her up," especially once he saw the iPod dock when he returned nearly seven months ago from Hell. He knows Dean slept completely through the night because there was no tossing and turning, and he wasn't screaming and flinching like he was having a nightmare.

"Alright," the younger Winchester says, plopping down on the edge of the bed. "Care to tell me what's going on?" He gently begins to rub his brother's back slowly, feeling him quiver beneath his touch and start to flinch away. Once Dean begins to roll on to his side, Sam pushes him back on to his stomach. "Relax," he says. The dark blond nods into the pillow almost hesitantly, and he really starts to wonder just what in the hell is going on with his brother. "Dean?" he tries again.

Dean shakes his head. "'m fine."

"One day, I'll show you the actual definition for that word. C'mon, man. You gotta talk to me."

Sam stops rubbing his back, and Dean shrugs. He looks so uncharacteristically small beneath the comforter, and there is tension radiating off of him in waves. He's chewing his bottom lip, and he's, overall, just acting super fidgety. Sam feels his own heart thump uncontrollably in his chest. He knows how rough it's been for his brother since his return from the Pit. He's just now, however, getting to the point where he's starting to show some actual human emotions again.

"Just tired, S'mmy," he mumbles.

Sam places a quick hand on his forehead before he has time to flail away from the unwanted touch. The brunette has known that he's been feeling continuously run down for the past couple of days, and it doesn't help that today is the first time he's seen his brother taking the time to rest. Dean always pushes himself until he's actually vomiting or sneezing and coughing up a storm; it's kind of unusual for him to cave this early. Sam isn't sure if he should feel relieved or worried.

He isn't overly warm, but he's betting the low-grade temp and clamminess is making him feel worse than he should. Dean's been so stressed since he returned and won't take even five seconds to pretend that he isn't okay. And, now that he is, Sam's determined to make the best of it, even though it is an entirely shitty situation. Dean doesn't talk about Hell, and Sam is refusing to push what _actually happened down there_ on him anymore.

Sam retrieves some NyQuil and ibuprofen, gives them to his brother, and wets a washcloth to place on the back of his neck. Dean is snoring within a matter of minutes and should be able to get some real rest since he gave him the night stuff. Sam returns to his laptop, and, when he tries to focus on researching for an upcoming hunt, his mind constantly drifts to Dean going through Hell and what he's not telling him and what he can do to make it better.

* * *

Dean is still dead asleep when Sam scrawls out a note telling him he'll be back in about an hour. He's going on a much-needed supply run, especially since he's vowing not to leave until Dean is feeling one hundred percent better. Thankfully, this motel they're staying at isn't a shit hole, and they can lay low there without the chance of him catching pneumonia on top of whatever this is. He's already made a list of everything they'll need for the week.

Sam pulls into Walmart since there's actually one in this town. Usually, they're stuck with overpriced gas stations or markets, but Walmart is definitely the cheapest option. Since his brother hasn't been hustling pool or darts at local bars, they've been running low on cash. It's about time for them to apply for new credit cards. But, honestly, Sam couldn't care less about money; he just wants Dean to be okay, and he's definitely not right now.

He darts toward the medicine aisle and picks up more NyQuil, pain and fever relievers, Vicks Vapor Rub (hey, he never knows with Dean), and a three pack of tissues. From the food section, he grabs blue Gatorade because that's the only kind he'll drink, fruity Popsicles for his throat (the ones with actual nutrience, not the sugary ones), multiple cans of soup, and bottles of water. Then, he runs over to grab a new blanket to keep him warm, despite it being mid-April.

The total comes out to be well over fifty dollars. Yep, time for new credit cards. Sam has to pay the leftover amount with the eleven dollars he has left in his wallet. Shit. If Dean were up to it, he would probably ask if he minded going to a bar soon; he's always been great at winning money. When Dean was twelve, he beat a group of forty-something year olds at pool and brought back over five hundred dollars. Needless to say, the eight year old version of Sam received a few news books to read, new clothes, and more really good food than he knew what to do with.

Once he leaves Walmart, he heads back to the motel. Even though he's starving so much his stomach hurts, they don't have enough money left for him stop. He thinks there may be a bag of chips or something in the trunk of the Impala, and he's sure Dean has a dollar or two in his wallet for the vending machine. He just knows that his brother actually needs all of the things he purchased, but he doesn't need a stupid salad or sandwich when his brother is sick.

Sam grabs the grocery bags, unlocks the door with one hand, and uses his foot to kick it open the rest of the way. He expects to see his brother still asleep in bed, but there's only a Dean-sized sweat stain to remind him of his existence. Sam drops the plastic bags on their kitchen table, runs a quick hand through his hair before closing the door, and heads into the bathroom. It's literally the only place his brother could. He knocks twice, but doesn't receive an answer.

"Dean?" he asks through the wood. "Are you okay in there?" When he jiggles the handle, it's locked. What the hell? Normally, he never locks the door, especially since Dad ripped him a new one for that once when he was younger. Dean used to lock himself in there during his showers for ten minutes of peace from Sam, but that ended quickly. Sam was sick, had nowhere to throw up other than the floor, and Dad chewed him out for what felt like decades for it.

There still isn't an answer, even when he knocks and calls out his name a few more times. Sam's mind is racing over all of the terrible things that could be happened, and, since he's an over-thinker by nature, he kicks the door opened. A section falls off the hinges, and he isn't sure how they'll pay for that, but he doesn't care. And, when he does get inside, his worst fears come true and slam into his face with a striking reality that shakes him to his core.

Dean is huddled in on himself, shaking visibly and violently. He has his arms wrapped around his skinny legs and his head buried in the middle. He's choking on his breath, and Sam can just hear the _sobs _of _pure agony. _Dean is close to hyperventilating. His breath is getting caught in his throat, and he's hiccupping and coughing loudly. Sam immediately drops to his knees and lifts his brother's chin off of the fabric of his sweatpants with his hand.

His eyes are beyond bloodshot and swollen; they're nearly drooping closed. His bottom lip is bleeding slightly from where he must have bit it open, and his blond hair is flat against his forehead. Sweat is pooling on the collar of his grey long sleeved shirt, and he's hunching in on himself, even though Sam is trying to get him to uncurl. He won't make eye contact. His eyes are darting all over the place, and he's rocking back and forth.

"Dean, hey," he says, tapping his cheek harshly. "You need to calm down. Do you hear me?"

Only the older Winchester can't and doesn't calm down. Relaxation is a thing of the past, and he's in the process of going through a full-blown panic attack. Sam crawls in behind his brother, wrapping his own arms around him shakily. Dean practically collapses into him, pulling him into a hug and sobbing heavily into his hooded jacket. Sam rubs his back comfortingly and feels his upper body becoming wet over the next few seconds.

"Shh, buddy..." he whispers.

Dean is breathing way too rapidly. Sam knows he needs his inhaler badly, but there is no way he's leaving him right now. He's done a lot of bad things to his brother in the past, especially with the demon blood, but he's not screwing this up. Even though he knows Dean is going to hate himself for this later and refuses to acknowledge that it ever happened, Sam will sleep better at night if he knows that Dean _knows _just how much he cares about him.

Before he truly realizes it, the blond has coughed so hard into his jacket that apparently it decides to morph into vomit. Since he hasn't eaten anything in a while, it's stringy and yellow, and Sam shakes it off. They've both been cleaning up after each other, more specifically Dean for Sam's illnesses, since they were kids, so a little bit of puke is nothing for him to fear. Sam continues rubbing his back and letting him know that he isn't going to leave.

"Dean," he coaxes softly. "Try to make your breathing match mine."

When Dean had ghost sickness, this is what he did to calm him down. He learned the technique after a particularly bad asthma attack of Dean's and figured out that syncing their breathing would greatly calm him down. So, Sam breathes in and out slowly, but not too deeply so he doesn't choke, and, sure enough, his older brother's breathing begins to return to normal. Dean's trembling hard, sweating terribly, and seems to be still panicking.

"Do you remember when I was six? I fell off the swings at school. I wailed my ass off for what felt like hours, screaming for my big brother to come get me. Dad was out hunting, and it was just the two of us. You always told me that if something happened to cut and run and come find you. That was the first and last time I ever ditched school. You were so angry with me, but, at the same time, you were scared. It's okay to be scared of whatever happened to you."

The older Winchester doesn't dare move a muscle, so Sam continues.

"I know you don't want to talk about Hell, and I get it. Something happened to you down there. But you have to know that I won't let this eat at you anymore. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. Please stop pretending though, dude. I can see right through it. I just want you to know that I'm always here for you, and, while I do wish you would talk to me, I get why you won't. There is nothing you could ever do that would make me go away."

This time, Dean nods. His breathing has almost entirely evened out, and the tremors have nearly stopped. Sam's ass is numb, and his hand is bound to turn into a stump, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He can feel his brother completely relaxing in his hold, and eventually holding him to calm him down turns into simply hugging him for dear life. He runs a quick hand through Dean's hair and can't help but smile sadly when he glances down to see him fast asleep.

* * *

_April 16, 2009_

Some time after three in the morning, Sam emerges from sleep with his brother glued to him. It takes a few seconds to register that they're still lying on the bathroom floor, and Dean is still cradled tightly to his chest. He guesses he dozed off somewhere along the line, probably a while after Dean practically passed out from his panic attack. Now, Sam's ass is numb, his lower back is on fire, and he can't feel his feet. He needs to get up.

Carefully, he moves his lump of a brother and props him against the bathtub. Sam's joints pop, and his muscles ache as he bends back down to hoist Dean up bridal style. Sleeping in a real bed is going to do them marvels compared to staying in the bathroom. Plus, the younger Winchester's jacket is coated in puke that he tried to wipe away earlier so Dean wouldn't lay his head in it, and he needs to get out of it. He places his brother carefully in bed and covers him up.

He moves around the motel room quietly, kicking off his jeans and socks, and throwing the jacket into the trashcan; he can just buy a new one. By the time he lays down next to his brother, Dean's eyes are wide with panic, and he's shaking slightly. Sam holds him close to his chest again, feeling more tears coat his t-shirt. "Dean, please don't do this again," he whispers, not angrily whatsoever. Dean's going to make himself sick if he keeps doing this.

"'m s-s-orry, S'mmy..."

Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair. "Hey, there's nothing to be sorry about. Just get some rest."

"B-But..."

"Dean, you don't have to tell me until you're ready. I'll be here."

A nod and a small smile in the darkness. Sam hasn't seen his brother smile, even forcefully, in weeks.

"We'll be okay, buddy. We're going to get through this together."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Left Sharker! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	55. Katie Parsons

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the brilliantly awesome television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, requesting, and reviewing! =)

Katie Parsons requested: "Can you do a story where Jensen gets a stomach virus (from both ends) at a convention, and Jared has to take care of him? Not slash, just brotherly friendship. Jensen gets so weak that Jared has to help him to the toilet to go to the bathroom and help him stand there." Since it is coming from both ends, I think I'm going to write it with sitting instead of standing because that makes more sense to me, but I get what you're saying.

Welp, I know people want me to write this. Overall, I've gotten mixed feedback about it, but I'm going to go ahead and do it anyway. This one is, without a doubt, the hardest prompt I've ever had because it deals with real people. I am dreading gets facts and voices wrong, but hopefully it turns out alright. But, for those who read this, please let me know what you think of it. If it's truly bad, then I am so extremely sorry. This one is a risk to write that others want me to do, and I respect that. And, I try not to turn down requests, so here it is.

But, to Katie Parsons, I'm not trying to make it seem like this request is terrible because it's not. It is interesting, and I did have fun writing it, but I just don't want to be wrong when it comes to aspects of their lives. It's a bit different writing about fictional people (Sam and Dean) versus the real people behind their characters (Jensen and Jared). I'm sorry to you if it feels like I'm tearing this request down. Like I said, I did like writing it; it just makes me really nervous.

**Please**, if you all could be so kind, do not report this. I am pretty certain it is against site rules to have this on here. It would be such a shame to have all of these chapters removed. I wrote this for the person who requested it, and quite a few people still wanted me to do it. I just really don't want all of my work to be ruined and for you guys not to have the daily updates and for your requests not to be filled. **I would greatly appreciate it! Thank you so much! =)**

So this is going to be set during the Chicago con back in October 2013.

Once again, I'm sorry of this completely bombs.

* * *

Katie Parsons

* * *

_October 27, 2013_

When Jensen's sore eyes pop open, he immediately knows it's going to be a bad day. Through bleary vision, he makes out that the clock on the nightstand reads noon. There's no way he slept for that long; he went to bed around ten yesterday night. He had refused to go out with Jared, Misha, and some of the other guys as a post day two con celebration and had crumpled into bed the instant he arrived in his hotel room. He hadn't even bothered to change his clothes.

His stomach is queasy to a point where it's uncomfortable for him to be laying on his tender belly. Jensen shifts to his side. His muscles are on fire, and he isn't sure he'll be able to move for the rest of the day. He and Jared have an hour long panel at 2:50, and that itself sounds like pure torture to him right now. However, the fans pay a lot of money to see all of them, and he would feel terrible for not showing up just because he's under the weather.

Another thirty minutes pass by, and he doesn't bother to hoist himself up to shower. His stomach just feels... funny. There's no other way to really describe it. He hasn't been entirely up to par in about a week. He's been lethargic, sore, and feverish and knows that the people around him are starting to catch on. But, Jensen is just glad Danneel and JJ don't have to be around this; he would hate for his soon-to-be five month older daughter to come down with something.

The alarm on his phone he set just in case he wasn't up rings harshly in his ears. He instantly turns it off with a shaky hand and bundles himself back beneath the warm hotel comforter. Jensen isn't sure he can ever leave this. Despite the feeling of general ickiness, he knows he has to at least get dressed soon. Jared will probably be knocking on his door any minute now, and he doesn't want him to see him like this. He most likely looks super gross.

He braces himself as he sits up, arms trembling violently as he holds up the rest of his body. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his entire being feels like queasy lead, if lead could actually be queasy. He grabs comfy clothes as opposed to something that looks more formal and begins his journey. The bathroom is only a few feet away, but each step he takes feels like a nightmare. He wraps his arms around his torso; his teeth chatter together.

Jensen sinks to the tiled floor, propped up by the bathtub. He runs his hands through his greasy, damp hair and cradles his head in his palms. He swallows the growing lump in his throat. Shit. He reaches for the toilet and ends up tossing his cookies the second he manages to practically shove his face in there. Everything he's eaten in the past year of his life erupts in a volcanic stream of horribleness, and he's left with an aching stomach and heavy breathing once it's over.

He flushes the toilet with a quivering index finger, somehow gets into a standing position, and turns on the shower. Jensen strips down into just his boxers and notes that he isn't sure how he's going to hide the deep, dark smudges beneath his eyes, the way his freckles are standing out massively on his face, and the red fever flush across his cheeks. He gulps again and hops in the shower. He cranks the water nearly as hot as it will go to stifle his shivering.

Even his blistering skin doesn't help him feel any less like crap. When he gets out, he dries off as quickly as possible to get into warm clothes, which is just khakis, black socks, and an old dark grey hoodie that he only wears to sleep in. It's more comfortable and warm than a thin button up that he normally wears to these cons. He coughs wetly into his hands and, as gross as it sounds, immediately has to unbuckle his belt, unbutton his pants, and drops his ass on to the toilet.

_Great._ Each time Jensen coughs, he guesses this is what's going to happen. His stomach is rebelling once again, and all he has is a small hotel bathroom trashcan to catch his vomit in. His throat is being rubbed raw, and he has honestly never felt grosser in his life. By the time he finishes, he wants to take another shower, but the clock on the wall says it's almost time for him to leave. _Already? Where did all that time go?_

He quickly brushes his teeth, uses the strongest mouthwash he can find to rinse out his mouth, and runs a shaky hand through his hair. He throws on a random baseball cap, hoping to minimize fans looking into his eyes and seeing how bloodshot and nasty they look. By the time he laces up his boots, there's an all too familiar knock at the door. Jensen groans internally, shivering with intensity, and struggling immensely to make it to the exit without gagging.

"Whoa, dude," Jared says as his friendly announcement. "You look like shit."

Jensen tries to roll his eyes or make a gesture, but his mind won't even let him do that. Instead, he shuts the hotel door behind him, stuffs his hands into the hoodie pockets, and walks side by side with his extremely tall best friend. Truth be told, he isn't exactly in the mood for talking; right now, he could use holing up in the bathroom and sleeping beside the toilet. At least this way he won't puke on himself or have to make a mad dash to toss his cookies.

"Are you alive in there?" Jared asks, waving a hand in front of his face in the elevator.

Jensen nods and swallows harshly. "Yeah, sorry."

"Are you okay? You look kinda... I dunno... gross?" The last part is more of a question than a statement.

"Thanks for the vote in confidence," he mutters. He doesn't want to sound or even seem cranky, so he pushes through the growing discomfort in his stomach to talk to the giant puppy standing next to him. "How was your night?" he inquires kindly. But, while Jared does ramble on and on, he loosens the hood from around his neck. He's beginning to sweat again, and his bottom lip is trembling. His stomach feels like it's heaving itself up all over again.

"Jay, are you sure you're alright to do this?"

_Shit. Did I stop paying attention again?_

He nods, almost frantically. "'m good."

* * *

_An hour later_

But, really he isn't good. He's crumbling with exhaustion and feels as though he's literally deteriorating all over the couch of the green room. Jensen's biggest fear is that he projectile vomits all over the fans, and that just cannot happen. Normally, he's pretty good at pushing through his illnesses, but this one is a bit different. He's never really had an issue with throwing up before. Sure, he's lost his voice, dealt with a lot of snot and coughing, and had the flu several times, but nothing compares to this. He literally can't think of a time he's felt worse.

"Are you dying?" Misha asks, plopping down on the couch rather harshly for Jensen's taste. He manages to shake his head and tries to curl in tighter on himself. He's biting the inside of his cheek to avoid the growing lump of nausea. His cheeks are way too hot, but the rest of his body is freezing. Misha tries to sneak a hand up to his forehead, but he quickly flinches and swipes it away. A fever is a given at this point. "You shouldn't go up there if you're this bad."

Jensen shakes his head. "Not sick. Just tired."

"Uh huh. Y'know, you aren't actually Dean, right?"

"Haha, very funny."

Misha doesn't seem phased. Then again, he never does. "Seriously, though. Why don't you let Jared and I take care of this?"

Once again, he shakes his head. "I said I'm okay," he says quietly, not at all harshly.

"Whatever you say, man. Just let me know if you want me to come out there to help."

He nods. Misha pats his knee lightly before standing up. Jensen coughs and squirms and tries his best not to seem as miserable as he feels. He should go to the bathroom, but now Jared's getting ready to go out, so that means he's got to go too. Maybe he should have just told Misha that he isn't feeling up to it? But he doesn't want to disappoint the fans who have spent so much money, took vacation days from work, and possibly drove thousands of miles to get here.

Jensen's knees tremble violently as he stands up, and he pushes the vomit sliding up his throat back down. His stomach is killing him, and he desperately needs a bathroom. Still, though, he follows Jared out on to stage, waving and smiling as if he weren't being tortured. The fans' piercing screams and wild clapping are normally incredibly welcoming to him, but, to his fragile head right now, they're like pure and unadulterated agony.

"How are you guys doing?" Jared asks, sounding way too energetic to Jensen's ears.

And, just as he sits down on the stool, it feels like his entire world is crashing down. He hears Jared tell the fans that "Jensen's a little under the weather," and part of him really hopes they understand and don't freak out about what he's about to have to do. The lump in his throat keeps on growing, and he needs a bathroom. Now. Fast. Pronto. He bolts off the stage without even glancing over at his best friend. _Where the hell is the bathroom?!_

Whilst he's making a crazy run to kneel before the throne, an oversized hand grips his shoulders. His vision is too blurry, but he knows it's Jared. "Hey, calm down," he says, guiding him into the bathroom. "Do you need help?" Jensen's entire body is nothing but an immense amount of shivering, and his stomach is definitely revolting. Jared unbuckles his pants, places a trashcan beneath his mouth, and Jensen, unfortunately, has to expel the sickness from both ends.

During this time, Jensen feels steady hands on his shoulders and hears Jared telling him that everything will be okay, even though it doesn't feel that way at all currently. The vomit is hot when it escapes his esophagus, so hot that it burns his throat terribly. He gags and swallows and tries to focus on something less literally shitty than this. A wet paper towel is being held by one hand on his forehead, and the ice cold water feels wonderful.

"Try to hold down the water," Jared tells him, holding the bottle beneath his lips. And then next comes, "Are you done?" He nods, and he's so freaking humiliated. Jared buttons up his khakis and buckles his belt, all while he leans heavily against him. He hands him a breath mint, which he is so incredibly thankful for that it's not even funny. "Do you feel any better?" He shakes his head, eyes drooping closed as Jared practically carries him to the green room.

Thankfully, the room is empty for the time being. Misha, Dick Speight, Matt Cohen, and Sebastian Rochè are all out on stage, leaving Jared and Jensen alone. He feels himself being lowered on to the leather couch and then covered up with a blanket of some sort. Carefully, Jared lifts up his head and pillows it in his lap. His stomach is still rebelling, but he feels too comfortable to worry or care. Jared runs his hands through his hair, and, before he knows it, he's out like a light.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope it was okay, Katie Parsons. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	56. WillowWinchester (I)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! =)

Okay, so my official decision has now been made about the fate of this story. I have 16 more requests until I hit 101 chapters and 100 requests, so I am going to stop it there. This takes the daily updates up until May 28, 2015, and that sounds like a great stopping point to me. For those that are wondering why 101 instead of 100: my first "chapter" was the rules for the requests, so I don't count that. I think 100 requests is a pretty nice goal, and I'm already over halfway there!

So, I will post a countdown on the official synopsis of this story announcing how many more requests I will take. I will _**only**_ take the first 16 requests, and, after that, I'm sorry to say that they will not be written. I want to try to write another story over the summer, and I can't continue this one anymore. The main point is is that if you have a request you really want done that I haven't yet, please send it in as soon as possible! Remember: there are only 16 spots left!

And, please don't request like 4-5 in one review/PM for me to write. I don't really think that's fair for others to get a chance. Thanks!

I personally think writing 100 of these would be pretty epic! It can be something that many people will continuously read for a long period of time. This is already over 100,000 words, and I'm wondering how many it will be by the time it's all over! Also, I just wanted to say thank you all SO MUCH for the requests and reviews! You guys are literally the fuel to my fire, and, without you, these one-shots wouldn't be possible! Thanks for the continued support! =)

WillowWinchester requested: "So, I was wondering if you could do a classic sick!Dean and caring!Sam fic along with when Dean was struggling with his memories of Hell, with all of the nightmares and excessive drinking." I love the classic fics because that's what I started out reading and writing! Even if it were for different fandoms, I always enjoyed imagining what it would be like on the show if the characters were actually sick.

I still think they should write an episode where Dean is sick, kinda like Sam with the trials...

* * *

WillowWinchester (I)

* * *

_February 12, 2009_

"Can we pull over soon?" Sam asks, glancing up from his book for the first time in hours. He notes that they're somewhere just outside of Illinois. He isn't even sure where they're heading since he hasn't found a hunt yet. They've been in the Impala since six this morning, and it's a little after eight at night. Flurries are flying overhead and sticking to the windows, even though the heat is cranking as high as it can. Sam himself is bundled in his coat. He crosses his arms and snuggles deeper into the old army blanket they keep in the trunk that Dean gave him earlier.

His butt is asleep, so he shifts a bit. Sam is starving, and his stomach feels like it's in knots. He wishes Dean would pull over at a diner or even fricking McDonalds. This kind of hunger always makes him nauseous on top of wanting to chew his own fingers off. He figures his big brother as to be hungry too, anyway. He lays his head on the freezing window; even beneath his dark blue beanie, it's way too cold. His teeth chatter loudly against the car's vibrations.

"Sure thing," Dean says. "There's a diner a few miles ahead, and then we can find a motel."

The younger Winchester nods, thankful that he can stretch his legs and finally eat something. But he notices how hoarse his brother's voice sounds and how he's sniffling every few seconds. He wonders how long that's been going on for since he was a bit too absorbed in his novel to worry about it. It's completely dark without the use of miniature flashlight, so he can't see anything on Dean's face. It is around the time when both of them get sick since it's winter.

"Are you feeling okay?" Sam asks, not wanting to push his buttons too much.

Dean nods in the darkness, but Sam can't see it. "Yeah, dude. Quit being such a girl."

And, with that, Sam drops it, mainly because they're pulling up to eat right now. He tosses the blanket in the backseat and practically races to the door, not caring that the snow is sticking more than he thought it would, and he's sliding all over the place. Dean follows behind him slowly and almost sluggishly; Sam gulps and tries not to panic. With his brother's behavior since September when he was resurrected, the last thing he needs is for him to be under the weather.

It's no surprise to him that Dean's drinking has picked up a lot since he returned from Hell. He's plagued by nightmares he's sure the older Winchester doesn't realize he notices. In order to cope with the practically night terrors, he has to numb himself up with alcohol instead of talking about it. His brother has never been a talker about feelings or emotions, but this is draining the life out of him. He barely eats or sleeps anymore because it's gotten so bad.

The deep bags beneath Dean's eyes tell him everything, and the fact that he's tapping his fingers nervously on the table is just another sign. He typically does this when he's about to literally crumble with exhaustion. His nose is a shade of dark red, which Sam presumes is from all of the wiping and sniffling that he's pretty much missed up until now, and he keeps swallowing harshly, so he guesses he's the owner of a sore throat. _Great. _

Sam orders breakfast for dinner since he's craving pancakes, and he listens as Dean hesitantly and hoarsely orders the soup of the day. Okay, that's the most classic sign of him not feeling well. And, then Dean rubs his chest with his knuckles and coughs wetly into his hand, trying to hide it and act like it was a once in a lifetime fluke. _Yep. He's going down hard tonight._ Most likely, they'll reach the motel, and he'll be running a high fever.

He guesses he's seen it coming for the past few days, but Dean's been so touchy lately that's constantly unsure of how to approach him. Normally, Sam would have to practically tie him into bed, but then eventually he would cave in. Since he's been acting strangely and won't let him in even in the most basic humanly ways, he doesn't know if he even wants his help. But, Sam can't sit around forever and watch, so he'll just have to play it by ear, which he hates.

While he's been thinking perhaps a bit too hard, Dean has apparently been trying to rub his eyeballs out. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot and an angry red. "Stop scratching," he says, swatting his brother's hand away from his face. The older Winchester glares and then lets an almost whimpering sound escape him, most likely without his permission. "What's wrong?" he asks, concern riding his every word and entirely too evident in his voice.

"Eyes hurt... and itch."

"Maybe you've been wearing your contacts for too long?" he suggests.

Dean shrugs. In that instant, their food is brought to them, and Sam is just about to dig in when he sees his brother prying his eyes open.

"Whoa," he says. "Do you have your lens case on you?"

A shake of the head.

"You can't lose your contacts, dude. Where is it?"

Dean doesn't say anything; he just points to the Impala. Even though the warm pancakes slathered in maple syrup with whip cream on top are calling his name, he takes the keys from Dean's discarded leather coat and heads out into the growing snowstorm. He grabs his brother's lens and glasses case and runs back inside, where the blond is still trying to gouge out his eye. They're so red that there's no way he'll be wearing contacts tomorrow.

"Thanks," he mumbles. Sam begins to eat his now cold pancakes while Dean goes off to the bathroom to remove the issue, or at least what he hopes is the issue. He's finished eating less than five minutes later when his overly exhausted, red-eyed brother returns to the table with his glasses on. Seeing Dean in wearing those spectacles is still weird to him to this day; he's just not the kind of guy who looks like he would have vision problems. The blond normally always sticks to contacts unless something gets in them during a hunt or, worse, if he's sick.

Sam goes ahead and pays for both meals, even though Dean hasn't even touched his soup; he didn't think he was going to anyway. They're a bit more stable on cash, so he'll buy supplies for the week once they hunker down for the night. Sam takes off his beanie and places it over his brother's hair, his heart thumping wildly when he doesn't say anything about it. Dean shoves his hands in his coat pockets and sulks to the passenger seat.

Sick it is then, Sam decides. There's absolutely no way he isn't. He'll figure out the logistics when they get into a room. The younger Winchester puts the car into drive and begins to coast down the lone road in this tiny town on the search for a motel. By the time he finds one a little over an hour later, Dean is fast asleep in the passenger seat, curled up beneath the army blanket Sam was using earlier. Sam taps his shoulder and beckons him to come inside.

Dean collapses on top of the blue comforter the second he walks in the door; he doesn't even bother to toe off his boots or remove his leather coat. However, he does slam his glasses on to the bedside table a bit too harshly. Sam listens to the sniffling progress since he's lying on his stomach, which just makes it harder for his congested brother to breathe. He drops their duffel bags on to his bed and pats Dean's ankle. The blond moans and blinks up at his brother.

"Shower, then you can sleep."

"Bite me."

"C'mon, you'll feel better once you're clean and warm."

Dean grumbles in annoyance, sniffles loudly once again, and shuffles to the shower. Sam picks out a warm pair of sweatpants, a green long sleeved shirt that actually belongs to him, wool socks, and his charcoal hoodie to throw over the shirt. He knows how much his brother prefers to be warm when he doesn't feel well. He isn't a big believer in "starving a fever" by leaving him a freezing mess because that always just makes Dean worse in the end.

Sam folds the covers back on his bed and sets out tissues, NyQuil, Tylenol, and a bottle of Gatorade. Dean exits the bathroom looking a bit warmer. He's even lost most of the flushed look. "I don't need meds," he says, lying down in bed and throwing the comforter over his most likely aching body. Sam rolls his eyes and huffs in irritation.

"You're running a fever. You definitely need meds."

"Get off my back, Sam," he says, rolling over and smushing his face into the pillow.

And, despite the fact that he can hear how much worse the congestion has gotten, Sam doesn't say another word.

* * *

_February 13, 2009_

"Jesus, Dean! Calm down!" Sam shouts, shaking his brother's shoulders viciously, trying to awaken him from his nightmare. He just woke up to him thrashing and screaming his name over and over again in his sleep. Dean is drenched in sweat and is twisting the blankets in his fists, looking anything and everything but peaceful. "Dean!" he yells, still trying to rip the dark blond away from whatever has a hold on him in his dreams.

Finally, his bloodshot eyes crack open, and the screaming stops. Dean immediately pushes away Sam's touch, and Sam's heart falls into the pit of his stomach. This behavior has gone on for way too long, and he just wants his brother to talk to him about what's going on. He knows that there's no way Hell was a walk in the park, and he knows that he remembers, which was the first lie he told him. Dean sold his soul for him, and now he's too stubborn and scared to speak.

Without warning, the sick Winchester bounces out of bed and walks over to his duffel bag, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and chugging it almost violently. Sam instantly feels his heart rate and blood pressure rise drastically. He's ill, just woke up from another nightmare, and he's already on another drinking binge. Sam isn't sure how much more of this version of his brother he can take. He's impossible to talk to and is literally shutting down.

Sam grabs the bottle. "What the hell, man?"

"What?" Dean snarls, eyes wide. "Give it back."

"No way! It's like four in the morning!"

"So?"

"So, that's way too early. And you can't keep drinking away your problems."

Dean coughs, sniffles, and grabs for the bottle again. "Watch me."

"No," Sam says. "I'm not letting this go on anymore. I get if you don't want to tell about what happened in Hell, but you're not drinking yourself into a coma."

Dean glares. "I'm older, and you most certainly don't tell me what to do."

"I don't care if you're older! Listen to me, Dean. This is killing you."

The blond sits down at the end of his bed, cradling his aching head in his sweaty hands. Sam joins him and wraps a tentative arm around his shoulders. And, then, something incredibly unexpected and frightening occurs. He first hears the sobs and then he feels the tears beginning to soak through his t-shirt. He looks down at Dean's face, who is now hiding in his chest. Shit. Sam rocks him back and forth. _What the hell happened to you down there?_

Dean's crying jag lasts long enough for him to pass out from exhaustion. Sam puts him back in bed and covers him up gently, touching his overly warm cheeks with the tear tracks staining them. Why won't Dean just open up and talk to him? He gets that it's now entirely how his older brother operates, but this is going to keep happening unless he does something. Sam figures he has enough time to figure out what before his brother wakes up.

And he vows to show Dean just how much he truly cares about him. Maybe that will help.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, WillowWinchester! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	57. WillowWinchester (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! I can't believe I've made it to 400 reviews! I appreciate it greatly, and I love you guys! =)

Just a friendly reminder: I am only accepting 6 more requests, so please submit if you want one written!

WillowWinchester requested: "For a long while now, pretty much ever since he got the Mark of Cain, Dean's been kind of struggling. You know, with trying to control himself, plus nightmares and drinking, and a lot of the time when he drinks, he's remembering the time he first got the Mark and the time when he got the Blade as well. I was thinking maybe have a fic during one of those times where he goes all kill-crazy and maybe hurts himself in the process? This could be set in season 9 or 10." I feel like season 10 is a good fit for this one specifically.

Actual show dialogue taken from 9x11 "First Born," 9x16 "Blade Runners," and 10x14 "The Executioner's Song."

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WillowWinchester (II)

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_March 5, 2015_

Sam is asleep when Dean emerges from his bedroom and heads straight into the kitchen. His brother has tried so hard to hide the alcohol, especially the one hundred year old whiskey they recently found, from him, but Dean knows his little sibling more than most will ever know theirs in a lifetime. He knows exactly how the kid works, and there's no way to keep anything from him. He doesn't bother with a glass; he just chugs it straight from the bottle.

The whiskey burns going down the hatch, but he would rather feel himself on fire from the inside out that feel _this._ He can feel it... The Mark of Cain is destroying him. It's eating him alive, and he wants nothing more than to rip out the throats of everyone around him on a given day. The Mark needs to be fed, and Cain said that all of this is only going to get worse. And that he'll kill Crowley, then Cas, and then lastly his baby brother Sammy.

"_Then would come the murder you'd never survive, the one that would finally turn you into as much of a savage as it did me. Your brother, Sam. The only thing standing in between you and your destiny is this Blade. You're welcome, my son." _

His right arm stings. It's unbearable. What's inside him... It's killing him in little fragments everyday, and he realizes he'll never have a slow death. He'll brutally murder everyone around him, and, at this point, he's thankful that Sam and Cas are the only ones left; he admits he wouldn't feel that broken up about Crowley's death, but he supposes Crowley being the King of Hell as opposed to someone else is better since he knows how he operates.

_"Tell me I don't have to do this. Tell me that you that you'll stop. Tell me that you _can _stop!"_

"_I will never stop."_

Dean's teeth chatter, only he's not cold. The whiskey takes off the edge, but it's not anywhere as much as he would hope. Each swig of alcohol brings back incredibly painful memories of Cain transferring the Mark over to his body and leaving him hollow and broken. Sam had just announced that he was done with him, and he fled to go solve the problem with Crowley. If only Sam had been there... Maybe then he wouldn't be twiddling a knife in his hand right now.

"_I can give you the Mark, Dean, if that's what you truly want."_

"_What are you talking about?"_

_"The Mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy."_

_"You mean a killer like you?" _

_"Yes."_

_"Can I use it to kill that bitch."_

_"Yes. But you have to know with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost."_

_"Yeah, well spare me the warning label. You had me at 'kill the bitch.'" _

"_Good luck, Dean. You're gonna need it." _

If Dean could just plunge the knife in his throat, it should all be over. But, he knows that the instant he's killed, he'll be brought back to life as a demon. What's the difference? He feels naked and bare and cold without the Blade and like he could slaughter millions with one breath. He's Dean Winchester; he's supposed to help people, even sometimes the wicked. He's helped Crowley God knows how many times. Why can't he forget about that fucking Blade?

"_That's it. Good. Next time, it'll be easier. You'll get used to the feelings, even welcome them."_

His mind reverts back to the power he felt holding the Blade for the first time in Magnus's hell house. He longs for that whole and open feeling. He chugs more of the whiskey and shakily holds the knife in his other hand. It should all be over. He wants to die. And he needs to get out of here. He can feel Sam's heartbeat a few rooms down. And he can't risk doing something to harm his little brother. Dean needs to escape. Dean needs to get the fuck out of here.

The blond Winchester grabs his jacket from the back of the chair he was sitting at earlier and practically trips over himself as he races to the Impala, whiskey still in hand. He doesn't feel the same humanly sensations he used to anymore. Dean wonders if he's turning into a demon again... But, for right now, he'll settle on hitting up a bar. Maybe the more booze he drinks will compensate for how erratic and shitty he feels on the inside.

* * *

It's half-past eight in the morning when Sam groans awake in his bed. He hops up and runs a quick hand through his hair, rummaging through his closet to pick out a pair of jeans, boots, and plaid shirt. He figures Dean will pad down the hallway eventually, bare feet smacking on concrete flooring. His brother isn't typically quiet about waking up here in the "Bat Cave;" ferocious yawning, abrasive cat-like stretching, and loud jaw popping.

He normally catches up with the blond in the kitchen, where he expects to find him munching on cereal or a blueberry Pop-Tart. Today, however, his brother is seemingly nowhere to be found. He checks their media room; sometimes, he'll wake up in the middle of the night and go watch TV, only to fall asleep on the leather couch. Nothing. He looks in the master bathroom, the one where the magical shower he can barely keep Dean out of, but he's not there.

Sam bites his lower lip with his mind racing wildly. He practically sprints down to Dean's bedroom, even though he's positive he's not there. If he were, he would be sprawled out on his stomach with headphones in his ears, snoring quietly to the rhythm of whatever classic rock tune he's subconsciously listening to. His bed hasn't even been touched, which was made to John Winchester's distinct bed-making requirements. The room is neat and in order; it's actually cleaner than Sam's at this point, which is just weird.

The younger Winchester searches for some kind of clue. Dean's cell phone is on his desk, along with numerous books, some novels and some that deal with lore and the Mark of Cain. His sloppy handwriting coats several pages of a notebook, which is placed open, as if he's supposed to read it. It doesn't say much; it's notes and information that Sam himself already knows. But, when he flips to the next page, his heart shatters and drops into the pit of his stomach.

_Need Blade._

It's two words written in the middle, not too big and not too little. Sam checks the date on the previous page to find it dated yesterday. Shit. Did Dean write this yesterday? There's no way to really tell, though. Why would he write that? Sam thought Dean was getting to a point where he could control himself and survive without the Blade. He had to withdraw from demon blood a few years ago; now, he looks at it as his older brother's turn.

And, Sam couldn't possibly be more nervous if he wanted to be. His heart is about to beat out of his chest, and his mind is swimming in what could be. He knows Dean likes to hang out at the local bars sometimes; maybe someone could point him in the right direction if he isn't there. He grabs his keys, wallet, coat, and throws a beanie over his bedhead to protect his ears from the snowstorm outside. _Where the hell is Dean?_ He speeds off into the morning light.

* * *

When Dean regains consciousness, the first thing he's aware of is the bone shredding pain in his lower left leg. He sits up and puts a hand on the growing lump on the back of his head. His mind is foggy and dizzy, and his head feels three sizes too big for his body. He glances down at his knuckles to find that they are bruised and bloody; they're numb and stiff when he tries to flex them. And it's when he becomes incredibly aware of his surroundings that he begins to panic.

The bar. Last night. Shit. Motherfucker.

People. The band group of guys who ganged up on him. One of them choked him. But Dean guesses he knows the rest of the story, judging by how much blood he's surrounded in and the mass of bodies in the bar. He doesn't even have to stand on his injured leg to know. He puts his head in his hands, immediately tensing and shivering with uncertainty. He's Dean Winchester; how could he hurt someone like this? He... He killed people.

Innocent people, too.

The bartenders and a few bikers were slaughtered by him. He's not saying that the people who jumped him deserved to die or anything, but he definitely felt like a fight was necessary. But this... The fucking Mark... Tears spill over his red cheeks, and, suddenly, he heaves up everything left in his fragile system. How could he do this to innocent lives? How could he, a man who does anything to save someone, brutally _murder_ over ten people?

"_But you have to know with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost."_

Yeah, some fucking cost.

Strands of vomit hang from his chin, and he tries his hardest not to get anymore sickness on his jeans. His next task at hand is to somehow hoist himself into a standing position and get the hell out of here. There's no way he can be in the presence of his own mess any longer. _Please, God. Don't let this happen to me. _He tries to reason with himself, but he can't. His right arm is burning violently from the Mark, and he needs the Blade. Why did they take the Blade from him?

"Dean!"

* * *

By the time Sam pulls into the last bar in Lebanon, it's nine-thirty in the morning, and he's pulled over to throw up three times, not that that's going to help either of them at this point. He has a bad feeling in his gut about this situation, and he knows the ultimate outcome is most likely not going to be pretty. And he's going to have to deal with the consequences of whatever happened to his brother whenever he decided disappearing would be the best.

He runs to the front entrance of the pub and bolts in immediately. There are cars out front, but he knows the place isn't supposed to be open. He figures it's just the owners getting ready for the day's work. But, then he opens the wooden door to discover his brother with throw up dangling from his chin, his head and lip split open, and in a pile of wood and blood on the floor. And the bodies. And the smell. And the air of death looming mysteriously over this place.

"Dean!"

Sam kneels down on the rubble, ignoring the other bodies for right now. He cups Dean's face with both of his hands, but he doesn't say anything.

"Didn't mean t', S'mmy..." he mumbles, falling face first into his chest.

"No. Hey, hey, Dean! Stay with me!" he taps his bruised and bloodied face lightly. "Dean! Buddy, you gotta come back!" Only his brother is out like a fucking light in the middle of this all-out massacre. Tables are turned over, chairs have been flipped, and glass has been shattered. There's blood smearing the surfaces of everything, and he can just tell there was some serious fighting going on here. But why Dean? Why does it always have to be his brother?

Sam calls the cops anonymously once he gets his passed out big brother into the Impala. Tears stream down his cheeks as he drives furiously, punching the gas and gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn ghost white. He feels terrible for just leaving all of those people there, but, once he wiped their prints, he had to leave. Dean... Dean's got a serious problem, and they have to solve it. It doesn't matter anymore how. His only goal is to fix him.

* * *

There's something hard and heavy covering his left leg. When he tries to lift it up, he can't. It feels like it's weighing him down. Dean tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but his body is weak and uncooperative, so he settles back down against his pillows. He fishes around next to him and pushes his glasses up to his nose, glancing around at his surroundings. Well, obviously he's in his room if he found his spectacles where he always leaves them.

Wait... Does that mean it was all a dream?

Nope. That hard and heavy thing wasn't there before.

"What happened?"

It's his brother's voice, and it sounds utterly broken and confused. But Dean doesn't feel any better, can't even begin to describe how strong the urge to lash out is, and it's as though he'll never be whole again without the Blade. He needs Cas to go dig it up or fish it out of wherever he hid it because he can't handle this much longer. This desire forcing him to shrivel up on the inside and actually want to hurt the most important thing in the world to him.

And he won't kill Sam.

"I-I... I dunno," he musters out of his sore throat.

"Oh c'mon, man. You gotta give me more than that."

He shrugs. "These... Well, these guys kinda ganged up on me after I sorta hustled them..."

"And?"

"And I shoved a pool cue down his throat and hit the others in the face with pool balls. I killed them, dude. That's all that matters."

Sam shakes his head, sighs frustratingly, and sits down on the edge of his bed. "Dean." He places his hand on his right arm, and Dean tries to squirm out from beneath his touch. He can't let anyone touch that arm anymore. It's a one-way ticket to pain, and he can't and won't hurt his baby brother. Even if it means killing himself somehow, he'll make sure Sam is the one person on this earth that he will never lay a finger on.

"I'm," his breath hitches in his throat, "s-so sorry... I wish I could make it stop."

Tears erupt from his leaky eyeballs, streaming down his cheeks in a heavy flow. Why does this keep happening to him? He can't go on like this anymore. He gets chronically sick everyday he's not touching the Blade, and just thinking about it is enough to leave him crying into his brother's jacket. He grabs ahold of Sam and pulls him close enough to get his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Sam... He's his constant, and he's his little brother. He can't hurt him.

"Shh... Dean, we'll get through this."

"Yeah? How can you be so sure?"

"Well, you did quite a number on yourself, which means you won't be going anywhere for a few weeks. We'll get you back in working shape, and we'll find a way to get this Mark off of you. You're not alone, Dean, and I don't ever want you thinking you are. I'm always going to be here for you no matter what. I'm not gonna leave you."

And Dean knows, despite the fact that his leg is broken and that he just killed ten people and that he's destined to slaughter his own baby brother that they will be okay. It doesn't matter what he has to do to make sure that Sam is safe in the end. If he has to hurdle himself off the side of a cliff or run away from the bunker forever or shoot himself in the head to make it all stop, then he will do it. Nothing means more to him than Sammy, and nothing ever will.

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**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, WillowWinchester! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	58. Dementra (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! =)

Dementra requested: "How about writing one where Dean is seriously sick (maybe going with the asthma theme you have done) / injured during a time Sam is soulless? Will Sam abandon or help him?" Well, I have never written a soulless Sam story, so this should be interesting. I'm really sorry if it doesn't flow well or if I butcher Jared's wonderful portrayal of his character being soulless. I'm going to approach this from this sickness and asthmatic side.

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Dementra (II)

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_November 16, 2010_

Soulless Sam doesn't sleep, but, then again, neither did Demon Blood Drinking Sam. Not really, anyway. He was too jacked up on bitch juice to get his usual eight hours. Dean feels weird equating the robotic version of his brother to the worst time in his life, besides the death of his father. Sam being soulless is no one's fault; it was literally for his own good. But, his younger sibling choosing Ruby over him is something that has, undoubtedly, scarred him for life.

But, still he can't exactly be mad for real at Sam, mainly because he won't understand what he's upset about in the first place. This Sam doesn't understand humor, which is a real downer. Dean doesn't make jokes anymore. Hell, he doesn't talk much either. Robo Sam isn't his brother. Sure, the real Sam was a Scrooge and didn't laugh at his cheesy one-liners anyway, but at least he knew he cared. This Sam couldn't give two shits about Dean, even if he were dying.

Dean used to think he knew what it felt like _not_ to feel. He shut down completely and entirely after he returned from Hell to find out his own brother had turned the other cheek. He drank through the nightmares when he could actually fall asleep. He pretended he didn't hear Sam when he was trying to talk to him. He ignored Bobby's pleas for him to open back up and come back to reality. He was a ghost of his former self; a fragment of him had been lost.

Sam, though. Damn. The kid literally can't feel _a thing._ He doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, and doesn't feel pain when he gets punched in the face. Dean's a man, okay. He can take a punch, stab, kick, or whatever. He's had his bones shattered and still managed to save his dad, Bobby, or his brother. But Sam doesn't comprehend basic emotions, and it's friggin' weird. And, while he's trying desperately to get his real brother back, he's so uneasy around him.

His younger brother watched him get bitten by a vampire and then acted like it was nothing when he turned into one. Dean had a migraine for _days_ after that and pushed through it. Sam adjusted rather well when he was abducted by aliens and tortured by fairies. He didn't bat an eye any time Dean was tossed around, hurt, or simply felt like shit, which is so unlike Sam that it makes him sick to even think about it. More than anything, he wants his brother back.

So, when his chest spasms beneath his harsh, wet cough, he ignores the look Sam gives him. It's not a "oh, are you okay?" look; it's a "can it" look. Dean's gotten enough of them from Dad in his life to know the difference. He blows his stuffy nose into an already too used tissue and throws the covers over his aching head. Their last hunt had left him thrown into a lake once again, and it landed him with this lovely cold that makes his whole body clam up.

And, since he was up half the night coughing in the bathroom with the hot water running, he knows Sam heard every rattle of his fragile lungs. Not that he knows how to care about that anyway. His brother would have had him tucked into bed with that pansy ass humidifier he uses when he's congested so whatever illness it is doesn't screw with his asthma. Dean's not trying to hide that he doesn't feel well to Robo Sam; there's no point in hiding because he doubts he realizes it.

He wishes his brother were back, honestly. He isn't a big fan of being coddled or smothered to death by anyone or anything, but he would gladly accept some help right about now. Dean's become so sickeningly adjusted to coping with things on his own, and he's tired of it. Why does he always have to be strong? Why is it always him that ends up feeling alone? He's exhausted, and he just wants Sam back so he can take care of him.

Robo Sam is poking away at the laptop; at least that part of his brother is still alive and ticking. The TV is off, the lights are dim, and the room overall is filled with tension from one of them and unawareness from the other. Dean knows this Sam is getting sick of waiting around for him to drag his ass out of bed, so he does just that. He pulls on a pair of jeans that barely fit him anymore, a ratty Henley, socks, and his boots. There's no use in waiting around for him to get better. Robo Sam doesn't even glance in his direction and heads to the Impala.

Dean blows his nose into a crumpled tissue, his chest flaring in agony with each step.

And, of course, his "brother" doesn't care.

* * *

Three hours into the drive, Dean turns over the wheel to Sam. He doesn't really want a robot driving his baby, but he's had Cas drive before, and that ended horrendously. He fell asleep some time ago in the backseat curled up beneath Sam's discarded coat; apparently soulless people don't get cold either. Dean's gone through two boxes of tissues during this short amount of time, and his entire body is nothing but a six foot one bag of aches.

"C-Can we pull over?" he asks, snuggling his face into the familiar scent of his brother. Figures. He goes from being slightly pissed off at the situation, to hopeless, to some senseless sap that just wants his baby brother back. At least this kid smells and sounds like Sam. He knows it would be worse and even weirder if this were Sam's mind in someone else's body, which has happened once or twice before. Getting comfortable with not-Sam is hard.

"Is this like throw up pull over, stop for a piss or food, or turn in for the day?" Sam asks, no emotion or infliction in his voice.

Dean shrugs; he would venture to say all three, but he sticks with, "Piss." Because it's true. He really does have to pee. He feels Sam put Baby in park, and it takes him what feels like it takes a few hours for him to actually push himself into a sitting position. A rush of dizziness swarms over him, and he cradles his head in his hands. The only issue with that is that bending down like that makes his nose drip all over him. He's reaching for a tissue when he hears his door open.

"Here," Sam says, giving him the box of Kleenex.

The older Winchester nods and blows his stuffy nose numerous times.

"Do... Do you need help getting out?" Sam asks, obviously uncomfortable with the notion. He has his hands stuffed in his pockets and has that typical pinched expression on his face. The normal Sam would have had him at some shitty motel bundled beneath the covers by now. He would check on him every few hours and let him sleep. And if he had a nightmare, he would drag the laptop over to his bed and sit with him until he passed back out.

This Sam doesn't do any of those things, and it sucks. Dean snuffles loudly, coughs wetly into his cupped hands, and shakes his head. His teeth chatter as he gets out of the Impala, his muscles screaming with pain and a hint of uncertainty. He crosses his arms over his chest, shakily walking inside the gas station. His head is pounding, his nose is pouring, and he's so ready to go to sleep for the rest of the day. And he just wishes his Sam were back.

Fortunately for him, the inside of the gas station isn't a crap hole and is extremely warm. It's starting to snow outside, so it only makes sense that the heat is cranking on high. Some customers are fanning themselves with newspapers, but the muggy and tropical temperature is soothing to Dean's cold bones. Sam stayed out in the car since he doesn't piss or eat, so Dean takes the opportunity to use the bathroom and guzzle down some NyQuil he bought.

He climbs into the backseat and cuddles back beneath the coat. He dreams of a warm motel room shared with his brother. His real brother.

* * *

"I-I... I can't do this, man," Dean somehow stammers out. He's on his hands and knees in the inch or so of snow, vomiting up what little he's been able to keep down the past few days. Sam is still shoveling away at the grave they're in the process or salting and burning. Dean wipes his nasty mouth with his coat sleeve, panting heavily. "Sa-Sam..." he mumbles, trying to hold himself up. His vision is blurry, his head keeps spinning, and he feels like he's on the verge of passing out.

"Almost done, Dean. Chill out."

The blond swallows another growing lump in his throat. It's well below thirty degrees outside, and kneeling in the snow isn't helping him warm up. Dean desperately needs a hot shower, more cold meds, and a fluffy, warm comforter to wrap himself in. Tears spill over his flushed cheeks, and, before he knows it, he's on the ground sobbing. He needs his brother back. He isn't sure how much more he can physically and mentally take before he breaks altogether.

"Alright, let's get out of here," Sam says.

Dean glances up at him from the ground and wipes the fallen tears away. "Yeah. S-Sure."

"Are you alright?"

He nods. "'m fine."

"Good."

* * *

By the time they get back to the motel, Dean has thrown up inside a plastic Walmart twice and used another box of tissues to try to clean himself up. Sam hasn't said a single word to him. Soulless or not, Dean would damn sure tuck his brother into bed and give him the TLC he needs and deserves. He can't possibly imagine what it feels like to not be able to _feel_ anything period, which it's now painfully obvious that he just doesn't.

Dean hobbles into the motel, removes his soiled coat, kicks off his boots, grabs pajamas, and barricades himself in the bathroom. He strips and climbs inside the hot shower, only to sink to the floor and bury his head in between his knees. More tears flow down his cheeks, and he's left a sniffling, snotty mess. He struggles to catch his breath, but it keeps hitching deep within his throat. He knows he's going to need his inhaler soon.

The shower doesn't last long because he's too exhausted. He could sit there all day long, but sleeping in here isn't exactly preferred. He's slept in some shady places before, including a shower that wasn't actually _on_, but he doesn't think he would ever be able to sleep with the water pouring directly on him. Trust him, though; he thought about it. He pulls on his pajamas, towel dries his hair pathetically, and bundles into bed wearing a hoodie and spare coat.

"Hey," Sam says. "You can't sleep with all of that on."

Dean creaks open a sore, bleary eye. "Since when do you care?"

"Just because I'm soulless doesn't mean I'm stupid. Take off the extra layers."

The older Winchester huffs in annoyance, but peels the hoodie and coat off of himself. He's left shivering to death in a thermal long sleeved shirt and old sweatpants. And then the comforter itself is stripped from his body. Sam hushes him when he begins to squirm and starts to shout and places an electric blanket over him before pulling the comforter back up. Where the hell did they get an electric blanket? Does this motel come with them?!

He mumbles happily into the fluffy pillow.

And then he smiles when Sam awkwardly ruffles his hair. At least that's progress.

* * *

_November 17, 2010_

"You ready for some soup?" Sam asks, carrying a tray over to Dean, who is lying in bed with his eyes already drooping closed. He places the tray across Dean's lap, and the blond scoots himself up with weak arms. He's ready to sleep for about three years, but, luckily for him, soulless Sam isn't such a bad caretaker afterall. He's even managed to find that damn humidifier and plug it up, which has easily lessened the urge for asthma attacks and heavy congestion.

The chicken noodle soup soothes his sore throat, and he finishes the whole bowl before cuddling back into the electric blanket. The thing is a freaking lifesaver and has successfully kept him warm and comfortable for an entire night. He needs to tell his brother once he gets his soul back that they are in desperate and dire need of one of these things. They're incredible and the best thing that's happened to him in what seems like an eternity.

"Get some rest, Dean," Sam whispers as he falls back into a deep sleep.

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**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Dementra! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	59. Njam

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the brilliantly amazing television show_ Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all so much for reading, requesting, reviewing, favoriting, and following! I truly appreciate it!

I have room for THREE more requests! Please let me know very soon if you would like me to write one for you! It would be an honor. =)

What did you guys think of last night's episode? I have such a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach from all of this. Dean told Sam that the Book of the Damned was not the way, and I should have known that book Sam threw into the fire was fake. And Sam's face when Charlie, Cas, and Dean were all happy and laughing freaking killed my soul. Honestly, this season has really started to pick up, and the past few episodes have actually been amazing! And friggin' Metatron! I hate him with such a strong, fiery passion! But Cas got his mojo back! But, like I said, I have a bad, bad feeling about all of this...

Njam requested: "You asked for a request with Cas. So how about Cas has to help a concussed Dean back to the Motel/Bunker/Car and Dean in typical form is being difficult. Either confused and not really with it thinking they're somewhere else or he wants to finish the hunt and keeps saying he's fine." You're right; that is Dean's typical form. I think I'm going to have this be set in fairly early season 10 after Dean is cured from being a demon. However, I'm writing about him trying to find Sam after he leaves for a hunt instead of Dean himself hunting.

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Njam

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_December 8, 2014_

Sam's gone. Dean doesn't want to admit that he misses his little brother, but he does. Something about the Bat Cave and being alone doesn't sit well with him. Of course, Sam will be back on Thursday, but that just means he'll have to be in damn near isolation for three more days. Truth be told, he doesn't really trust himself anymore; being a demon and baring the Mark of Cain will do that to a guy. And he completely understands if that's why Sam left.

He's been nervous lately. Dean's spent most of the day pacing back and forth with a shotgun over his shoulder, rotating between chewing his left and right hand fingernails and focusing on keeping his breathing under control. He isn't sure if it's the Mark causing this kind of paranoia, but he's willing to bet money that it is. Right now, the urge to kill isn't that strong, but the urge to constantly be protecting his brother has kicked into overdrive.

Though, he supposes he's always been that way. He used to have to remember to change his brother's diaper every few hours, feed him every three hours, burp him, bathe him, and play with him, even though he was only four years old and could barely lift him for long periods of time. And Dean grew up knowing his duties, and, even though Sam's thirty-one years old, he knows he'll never "grow" out of that. But this whole Mark of Cain deal _is_ making it worse.

On top of that, his asthma flares up on a continuous basis, and he doesn't think he's been fever free for the last month. It's forever something, and it reminds him of how bad of a nosedive Sam took during the trials. He's stressed, yes. So stressed that showering, which used to be a relaxing affair, panics him into a frenzy, and he immediately has to jump out to see if Sam's okay. His dreams are no longer plagued with the Blade, but with his brother's bloody face.

Needless to say, it's been a while, even with Sam here, that he's gotten a good night's sleep. Two nights ago, his insomnia and worrisome were so bad that his younger brother had to pull him into his own bed and rub his back until he fell asleep. But the welcomed rest only last about four hours before he dove face-first back into crazy town. It's not that he can't function and has lost it entirely; it's just that it's getting harder to pretend something isn't up.

Dean breathes in heavily. His heart is thumping out of his chest, and his mind is spinning a thousand miles per minute. He bites a nail on his left hand for the hundredth time; his nails are nothing but slightly bleeding nubs from biting down too low. He sets the shotgun down on the kitchen table after making sure the area is secure and grabs the thermometer Sam left there just in case. He feels... He doesn't know, warm maybe? Better check.

102\. Not too bad if someone were to ask him. He feels his cell phone growing denser in his pajama pants pocket. Call Sam. _I should call Sam._ Damn this stupid Mark. He sits down on a stool and scrubs a hand down his stubbly face, all while his heart is beating rapidly. It's the same kind of panic he felt when he had Ghost Sickness, and it sucks ass. He dials his brother's phone number and bites his lower lip hard when he doesn't answer.

That's it. He has to get out of here. Dean races to his bedroom to throw on a pair of jeans, one of his brother's hoodies, and a coat to throw over it. He pulls on socks over his bare feet and laces up his boots. He can't take much more of this growing paranoia. But, he does know that Sam's in danger, only he's not sure if it's rationally or irrationally. Sam said he was going to dig up some information (or body) at a cemetery in Nebraska. Maybe he'll still be there...

* * *

When Cas goes to visit his friend Dean Winchester at the Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, he becomes immediately aware of two crucial things: Dean Winchester is not there, and Sam Winchester is absent as well. The brothers are typically here, and, if not, they're out hunting ghouls and ghosts into the night. But, still, he knows about it by word of mouth, or rather call phone, since his grace has been depleting, even with Crowley's help.

He knocks at the main entrance that the boys typically answer to. He tries to call both of them, but neither will answer. Cas doesn't understand what is going on, so he just decides to blow through the door; it's the last bit of power he has reserved for a while, but something isn't right here. He can't detect any foreign scents. In fact, there are only three in here, and they're from himself and both of the brothers. Dean smells like wood, and Sam smells like fruity shampoo (Dean says he uses the girl stuff to make his hair shine more, but don't tell anyone).

The stairs are normal, and the only signs of life in the large living room (which he's still not sure why it's called that) are two unwashed cups, dozens of books on the table, and two blankets, one in the recliner and one on the couch. He assumes this is what Sam and Dean were working on prior to their disappearance. Cas curses at his own wrong doings. He wishes he had enough grace left to just find both of them and drag them back here so that they're safe.

But then Cas finds a note on the wooden dining room table that's littered with soda cans. "Dean, be back Thurs. Rest up. – S" The handwriting is undeniably Sam's messy scrawl. Rest up? Is Dean sick? Hurt? Worse? Cas is an angel, so finding the right words for emotions is hard, but he gulps, and his palms are beginning to sweat. Nervousness. He believes that's the term for it. He heads into the kitchen to check things out because, let's be honest, that's where the version of Dean he knows best is bound to be. He's grown a new fondness of cooking, afterall.

The kitchen is also in a state of disarray. There's an empty cereal box on the counter. Lucky Charms. Must have been Sam since he has particularly bad taste in cereal. When Cas was human, he preferred Fruit Loops or the occasional Reese's Puffs because of their peanut butter-chocolate flavor. There's dishes in the sink, and neither Winchester would ever leave their home this disorganized, especially not Dean, who was raised to be clean and to train his brother to follow suit. Cas touches his finger to his scruffy chin, something he notes humans do in confusion.

And then he sees the thermometer that's still blinking 102.8 degrees. And then his heart proceeds to sink deep into the pit of his stomach. Okay, so he presumes Dean is running a fever of great magnitude, and he can't get ahold of either of the brothers. And then he finds the shotgun abandoned on the floor from where someone must have dropped it. He picks up the older Winchester's scent, so he's assuming it's definitely Dean.

If he were a fowl-mouthed being, he would say "shit" right about now.

He has to find Dean, get ahold of Sam, and get him out of whatever mess he's in. Dean's incredibly fragile and unstable with the Mark, and it's obvious it's taking a great toll on his body and mind. Cas swallows harshly and flees to his car, driving hastily down the road, searching for any and every sign of Dean Winchester. He can't be alone. Not now. And Cas took a sacred vow when the man was just an infant to watch over him. And that's what he intends on doing.

* * *

Dean sludges through at least six inches of snow, shuffling his feet with hands in Sam's hoodie pockets. There's a handgun clutched tightly in his the pouch, just in case. His heart is beating out of his chest; he drove all the way to Nebraska, and he can't find his brother. He's been circling the cemetery for hours, and he's called Sam probably hundreds of times. The rational part of his mind is stating that he's on a hunt and can't answer, obviously. But the section of his mind he's currently following is screaming that he's hurt badly or worse.

"Hey! Whad'ya doin' here, kid?"

The blond turns around to see an angry, redneck-esque man wearing coveralls and a coonskin hat. What the hell is this? The 1900s? He looks absolutely ridiculous to the young hunter, and he is too frazzled and genuinely nervous to deal with anyone other than his brother right now. Where is Sam? Why won't he at least call him back? So, when this man starts to approach, he clutches on to the gun tightly with his right hand, ready for action if it comes to be that way.

"I asked you a question," he spits. "You can't just be wanderin' a cemetery in the middle of the night."

Dean is in a mood where he really can't do this right now. "'m sorry, sir. Just a little lost is all." He sure as hell isn't getting ready to inform this crazy that he's looking for his younger brother out here at three in the morning. He's trembling with exhaustion and is ready to pass out in the fluffy snow, but he can't stop. The Mark or his own anxiety or whatever it is is making it impossible to stop. He doesn't know how to control it anymore.

The man shakes his head. "N'way you're lost. You involved in some kinda devil worship, son?"

He can't even think of a response for that. Dean's not doing anything other than walking in the same circular pattern. It would be a bit different if he were digging up a grave or performing a séance or something, but he literally, for once, isn't doing anything illegal. Or at least he doesn't think so. "Alright, man," he says a bit too quietly, scrubbing his left hand down the side of his face. "I'm leaving." As he goes to walk back to the Impala (which he's just going to come back out here once this shit hole leaves), the man presses the heels of his hands into his shoulders.

"I'm callin' the police."

And something inside of Dean snaps. His fucking life practically flashes before his eyes. He sees his brother and how worried and pissed off he'll be later on. Shit. Dean pulls the gun out of the hoodie pouch, but, before he can do anything else, the man clocks him on the temple with his own shotgun. The blow isn't big enough to knock him out, but it sends a wave of pain swelling through his entire head. He curls in on himself in the snow to avoid more hits.

"Now you just wait here, young-"

Dean's waiting for him to finish and then find a way to bolt the hell out of here when there's silence. Deafening silence, which is an expression Sam has hated since he was seven and first learned about oxymorons. Nothing. There's no noise at first, but then there's suddenly the sound of crunching snow. The older Winchester immediately sits up with his vision blurring and nausea rising in the pit of his stomach to see his best friend walking toward him.

"C-Cas?" he sputters out.

The angel kneels down on the ground and puts a warm hand on his shoulder. Dean practically crumbles into him, leaning his face into his chest. "It's okay, Dean," Cas says, wrapping his arms around him instantly. "Let's get you back to the bunker." Dean shakes his head, tears spilling over his hot cheeks. The panic inside him is bubbling over like boiling water. His breath hitches in his throat. Sam. He needs to find Sammy. Where is his brother?

"S-S-Sam," he stammers.

Cas runs a quick hand through the blond's hair. "Your brother's fine. I got ahold of him earlier."

"Wha's he doin'?" Dean removes himself from the angel's chest, glancing up at him with bright, hopeful eyes.

"He'll be back sometime tomorrow. You can't just go missing like that. But, we have to get you warm before you become sicker."

Dean doesn't even protest when the angel lifts him up as if he were as light as a sheet of paper. He lolls his head to his chest once again. His head is pounding viciously into his skull, and he gets queasier with every step his best friend takes. With someone here to stabilize his crazy paranoia a bit more, the urge to get to his brother has lessened significantly. Cas says he talked to Sam, and he's okay, and Dean completely trusts Cas with anything.

The brunette angel tucks his friend into the passenger seat of the Impala, throwing the army blanket from the trunk over his body. Dean sighs with relief at the first touch of heat he's felt in hours. Cas carefully lifts up his aching head and balls his trench coat comfortably beneath his head. He snuggles deeper into the familiar fabric, soothed quickly to sleep by the vibrations of his baby, his friend sitting next to him, and knowing that his baby brother is okay.

* * *

Cas has showered, medicated, and got Dean Winchester into bed. The thirty-five year old is out like a light, curled in a tight ball beneath an electric quilt he found in a closet and his comforter. The older Winchester had refused to let go of the hoodie of Sam's he was wearing and Cas's trench coat, so he's left feeling practically naked. He takes this opportunity to change into a pair of jeans and a green long sleeved shirt that they have from his stay here whilst human. In fact, when he goes to his old room, everything is perfectly intact.

When Cas returns to the blond's bedroom after changing his clothes, he finds that Dean is nowhere to be seen. Leave it to Dean to leave within the three minutes he was gone; typical Winchester. Here he is with a moderate concussion wandering around in the bunker when he has no business of being out of bed. Sam was a worried mess when Cas had told him what happened, but the angel assured he could take care of it until he got back; it's only a day, afterall. But, now Dean is trying to escape under his watch. Go figure.

The small brunette finds the blond trying to get out the front door. He's clawing at it as if the doorknob doesn't exist. Cas has dealt with his fair share of Winchester concussions before, but Dean's off balance from the Mark, so it's extremely vital that he doesn't wind up hurting himself in any way, shape, or form. The angel pulls on his friend's shoulders and makes him face him. Dean's right side of his head is a giant bruise, and his eye is even black and bloodshot.

"Gotta get ou' of 'ere," he slurs.

"Dean, you have to rest." He tries to push him toward the couch down the steps; he's unsuccessful.

"Lookin' for S'mmy. You seen 'im?"

Cas gulps and nods. "Your brother will return tomorrow. Now, let's get you to the couch."

Dean's shivering and shaking with each step, and he's also fighting him. He's pushing him away and mumbling about going to find his Sammy. By the time Cas gets him to the leather sofa, he has to practically force his head on to the two pillows he found there.

"Sammy!"

"Shh... Dean, it's Cas. And your brother will be here soon."

"Gonna ge' hur'..."

"He will be fine. I promise."

Cas is about to go find the television remote to settle some of Dean's nervous energy when a cold, clammy hand grabs his own. The blond is motioning for him to lie down next to him on the couch. Cas takes the opportunity to sooth his best friend by climbing in gently behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist, and holding him close to his chest. Dean's breathing evens out and snores fill the room, but not without first whispering his baby brother's name.

* * *

_December 9, 2014_

Sam finds Cas and Dean snuggled up together on the leather couch when he arrives home. He's exhausted, achy, and beyond hungry, but he's here a day early to help his big brother cope. Dean hasn't been handling the Mark well has been getting increasingly paranoid and becoming a relentless insomniac because of it. However, he is insanely grateful that Cas is taking such good care of him because he knows how difficult a concussed Dean can be.

He sets his bags down on the ground and immediately pads over to them, snapping a picture of the pair with his iPhone. He shakes both of their shoulders gently and watches their eyes pop open groggily. Dean groans, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, and glances up. He instantly hops up once he notices it's Sam and hugs the hell out of him. It's so uncharacteristically Dean that Sam is thrown completely off guard, but he's smiling nonetheless.

"'m glad you're okay, S'mmy..."

Sam pats his back, rubbing it lightly. "I'm okay, Deano. We gotta work on getting you better."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Njam. I had to throw in some Sam since Dean was so worried about him. Thanks for reviewing, requesting, and reading! =)


	60. HBKDEANRKO

**Author's Note: **I do not own the brilliant television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading, requesting, reviewing, favoriting, and following! =)

Also, I just wanted to let everyone know that I am not longer accepting requests. I have reached my 100 spots, and the last chapter will be posted on May 28. I wish I could accept more and do this forever, but I want to move on to writing a new story. =)

HBKDEANRKO requested: "I have been dying to read a story where Dean gets hurt protecting Sam and Sam gets completely pissed off at him, maybe accidentally hurting Dean more. Dean suffers silently and Sam ignores him, so Dean shuffles off alone to take care of himself, only he can't and by the time Sam realizes that something is wrong, he finds his brother unmoving and thinks he's dead. Set in the more recent seasons if possible."

Haha, I love post "The Purge" fics, which is exactly what I'm going to make this one!

Direct dialogue taken from 9x13. Rated for multiple f-bombs.

This is my longest chapter yet!

* * *

HBKDEANRKO

* * *

_February 10, 2014_

Dean has spent the better part of the morning ignoring his brother, if he can even get away with calling him that anymore. It's been an awkwardly uncomfortable past six days, and, needless to say, he hasn't left his bedroom once since Sam went to bed that night after he basically threw Dean to the hungry, angry wolves. He hasn't eaten or slept, and the beard he's growing is becoming quite extensive. Dean hasn't even bothered to get into jeans for nearly a week.

_You know, Sam, I saved your hide back there. And I saved your hide at that church... And the hospital. I may not think things all the way through, okay? But what I do, I do because it's the right thing. I'd do it again. _

And, not to mention, he's saved his ass more times than he can count. He can't recall a time in his entire fucking life after the fire where he wasn't looking out for that snot-nosed brat. Dean's been sacrificing himself for the greater good, which is what he thought was his brother, since he was four. He starved, bled, and screamed for that kid down the hall pecking away at his laptop. God only knows how many times he's prayed to keep him safe.

_And that... is the problem. You think you're my savior, my brother, the hero. You swoop in, and even when you mess up, you think what you're doing is worth it because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad... But you're not... I mean, Kevin's dead, Crowley's in the wind. We're no closer to beating this angel thing. Please tell me, what is the upside of me being alive?_

His life is meaningless without Sam. Why the hell did Mom and Dad have him if Sam wouldn't be in the picture four long years later? His purpose, everything, is about his brother. Always has been. Always will be. So when he hears the kid ask what the bright side of him being alive is, he's at an utter loss for words. He's never heard anything more stupid, but, trust him, Sam was the king of idiotic inquires as a toddler and little tyke.

The closest answer he can come up with is: _You kidding me? You and me, fighting the good fight together. _

But that doesn't cover it, not by a long shot. If he could gouge out his own eyeballs, it would have been less painful than that conversation. He flops down on his memory foam mattress that hurts him at this point; he doesn't want to hole himself in here any longer, but he's too nervous about what Sam's reaction to seeing him out will be. He knows it's all over and that Sam hates him again. It's like the fiasco with Ruby from years ago times a thousand.

_Okay. Just once, be honest with me. You didn't save me for me. You did it for you. _

Well, brilliant fucking deduction, Holmes.

_What are you talkin' about?_

And, even before Sam said anything, Dean could tell it wasn't something he really wanted to hear.

_I was ready to die. I was ready. I should have died, but you... You didn't want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can't stand the thought of being alone. I'll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrificing as long as you're not the one getting hurt._

Dean's been hurt mentally, physically, and emotionally more times than he's ever told Sam. Dad wasn't exactly a nice drunk and would sometimes get violent, but Dean made sure that, no matter what, he never laid a finger on Sam. He would jump in front of his brother to save him in a heartbeat, whether a train was about to flatten him or a bullet was hurdling toward his chest. He gets _hurt_ all the time. And he wishes Sam knew what it was like for him to grow up.

_Alright, you want to be honest? If the situation were reversed, and I was dying, you'd do the same thing._

The look on Sam's face is an expression he'll never forget.

_No, Dean. I wouldn't. _

If words could actually kill, these would be the ones to bury him six feet under. He sold his soul and went to hell for him, he went to Purgatory to keep him out of harms way in a sense, and he's allowed on two occasions now for Sam to return to a "normal life." He could have fought him when he went to Stanford, but he didn't. That was Dad; Dean just played his role of the supportive brother even though his insides felt like they were being ripped out.

He should honestly figure Sam wouldn't save him, as much as hearing it does hurt. Sam didn't call him for years at school. While Dean texted him every now and then and sent presents on both his birthday and Christmas, he never received a thing in return. Not that he wanted gifts, anyway. He wanted his brother to talk to him; that's it. And then Sam ran off with that girl once he was blown away by exploding Dick to Purgatory. He didn't even look for him.

The bottom line is is that he shouldn't save Sam anymore, he guesses. But he's not sure he has that in him.

Dean is snapped out of his trance by three careful knocks on his wooden door. He doesn't bother to get up or acknowledge it; he just curls up beneath his comforter. Maybe Sam will go away if he thinks he's asleep. He even clicks off the bedside lamp in case he comes in. He hears the door crack open, and the overhead light comes on. His brother pads over to the side of the bed and shakes his shoulder a bit roughly.

"I found a hunt. Forty-something restless spirits in Missouri. I need your help, though."

Dean blearily re-opens his eyes. He doesn't say anything, but he does nod.

"Meet me in the car in ten."

And then Sam slams the door closed. Tears swell in the corners of Dean's eyes, but he quickly pushes away those emotions. He would have been perfectly content with laying here until he died, but, at the same time, maybe things will get better if he goes. There may even be less tension. He quickly showers for the first time in a few days and shaves his face as fast as possible. He nicks and cuts the hell out of himself, but Sam doesn't need to see his depression. His beard typically grows with how terrible he feels on the inside.

Dean throws on a random pair of jeans and notes the already evident weight loss from not eating anything in almost a week. To fend off the vicious snow falling outside, he pulls on an oversized sweater that used to belong to his brother, a large coat, wool socks, and laces up his boots. His eyes are too swollen for contacts, and he would rather be able to see, so he's forced to wear his glasses out into this weather. He just hopes he doesn't break them.

He meets Sam in his baby. His brother is practically squished in on himself, hunched up and looking more uncomfortable than ever. Dean starts the car after opening their garage, gulping. His fingers are trembling, and there's an unbearable lump growing in his throat. He touches his fingers to his chin and wipes the blood away. The crimson flows between his fingertips, much like how his relationship with his brother is slipping away from him.

* * *

They arrive at the older than dirt cemetery five and a half long ass hours later. Neither of them has uttered a word to each other, minus directions and a location for Dean to drive to near the beginning of their journey. The brothers walk silently to the graves of the forty-seven disturbed and restless spirits that have been antagonizing an entire city for nearly two weeks. For now, the graveyard is quiet, but he figures there will be trouble sooner rather than later.

Sam and Dean start digging up separate graves. Dean can hear his brother getting angrier and angrier with each scoop of dirt that lands heavily on the ground above him. He's huffing and puffing and clearly getting agitated rather quickly. The older Winchester sighs quietly, snot dripping from his nostrils due to the freezing temperatures outside, and makes sure Sam doesn't know he's here. Well, obviously he knows he's here, but he doesn't want to poke the bear.

He hasn't really been in any form of confrontational mood since his brother said he wouldn't save him no matter what circumstances. Normally, he would have chewed his ass out, but he doesn't feel like Sam would even care to listen. What's the point? He asks himself thousands of questions while digging, and each inquiry revolves around his pain in the ass little brother. Why doesn't Sam see what he sees? Why does Sam hate him? Why is he such a bad big brother?

And that's when it happens. About thirty-something salt and burns later, his breath becomes ice cold, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he freezes internally for a split second. He drops the shovel, grabs his shotgun with rock salt shells, and carefully aims off into the distance. Over his shoulder, he witnesses Sam doing literally the exact same thing with precise movements; it brings him back to when they were kids and Dad used to ride their asses for making sure their surroundings were clear.

And then a spirit lifts Sam up into the air. Dean doesn't waste a second, his heart pounding wildly with each passing second he sees his little brother being tossed and thrown around by a bunch of stupid asshole ghosts. Sam's upside down and being help up by his ankles, his head hovering over a tombstone. If they were to drop him, he'd probably die.

"Hey, dumb bitch!" he shouts. Good. The spirit moves his brother slightly away from the grave, but it's enough that once he's dropped he won't get too hurt. Dean begins to shoot his shotgun, and the ghost drops Sam, who lands in a heap on the snow covered ground. A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach creeps upon him the instant he's tossed face first into a tombstone himself. His vision goes black, and his glasses smash into his face, and all he can think of is his brother.

He feels his body being lifted into the air once again. Oh shit. His entire body is quivering, and there's blood pouring into his eyes. The frames of his glasses are still hooked behind his ears. Dean's grip on the shotgun loosens until the weapon falls inches into the snow. His head. Oh fuck. It really hurts. And then he's being hurdled again into... something. He braces for the blow with his right hand, the other still wiping away the blood.

And then there's a wicked, shrill scream that's not his. Dean writhes in pain on the ground, moaning and mumbling and trying to make the pain go away. His lips twitch. He's still holding on securely to his face. There's a distinct pop in his right arm that sickens him to the core. Blood. His left eye is swelling shut rapidly. He gags and vomits into the now red fluffiness, his insides rattling and everything else trembling violently.

"What the hell did you do that for?!" he hears his brother bellow.

Dean can only see out of one eye, and the other is shit between the head injury and the loss of his glasses. Overhead, he squints to see his brother glaring at him angrily in the moonlight. Snow is falling all around him, and he's holding something in his hands. He's just about ready to try to speak when he feels a bone-crushing blow to his stomach and chest from Sam's boot colliding with his body. And then hoists him up by the collar of his jacket. Dean scrunches up and hisses with pain, tears streaming down his bruised and bloody cheeks.

"Why do you always have to save me?" he hears Sam ask.

And then he's out like a light.

* * *

Dean regains consciousness with his face buried in the snow. Blood fills his mouth, and he has to struggle to get his one working arm to push himself up against a tree. He leans back on the bark, breathing heavily. The crimson is still pooling into his eyes, and he cradles his injured arm around his battered and bruised ribs. He can already feel that he's starting to lose the battle with not passing out once again. He tucks his aching head in between his knees.

Why would Sam get so violently angry like that? All he did was save him from getting fucking killed! Can one imagine the fighting they deal with from ghosts, demons, and monsters for Sam fucking Winchester to lose his life by being dropped on the head? No. And Dean would never allow that to happen in the first place because Sam is his _brother_. He knows he wouldn't do the same for him, but whatever. It's not that Sam cares anymore anyway.

The younger Winchester has since barricaded himself in the passenger seat of the car. Dean somehow, by the grace of whatever, manages to get on his feet and wobble to the Impala on shaky legs. Once again, neither of them says anything to each other, and Dean can't even formulate words for how he feels. Despite the growing pains in his head, eyes, arm, and stomach, he presses down hard on to the gas. He just wants to forget about all of this and hole up in his room for the rest of his life. He doesn't care. Not anymore.

* * *

_February 11, 2014_

They arrive back at the bunker several hours later. The instant Dean puts the car in park, Sam hops out and runs off inside. His only responses are a sigh, hiss, and shake of the head. Dean moans when he pushes himself out of his baby with throbbing legs. He hobbles to his bedroom, quietly clicks the door shut, and begins to hastily remove the clothing sticking to his upper body. Other than being cold and stiff, his feet and legs are perfectly fine.

He feels, though, that the rest of him didn't fair as well. He doesn't want to think about Sam anymore, so he removes those thoughts from his mind and focuses on what the hell he can do alone to make his injuries better. Once shirtless and in the bathroom, Dean notices through blurry vision how torn up around both of his eyes is. His left is still bleeding from right beneath the eye, and there are tiny nicks from glass breaking in his face all around both of them.

Dean knows he has a spare pair somewhere around here or possibly in the Impala, but that prescription is even more outdated than the broken ones. Panic rises in his throat. What if he's going to go blind? What if a piece of glass is stuck in there? Nothing is deep enough for stitches, and he can't exactly put a Band-Aid practically on top of his eye, so he just uses a washcloth to get the brunt of the work done. At least it's not dripping down his cheek anymore.

From what he can see, his chest and stomach are nothing but a mar of purplish-blue bruises, and there's a bone near the elbow of his right arm that's sticking out under the skin. He gulps. Well, that can't be good. A hospital is out of the option because he literally can't drive (he isn't sure how they even made it here in one piece between him being hurt and blind as a fucking bat without glasses or contacts) and because there's no way Sam will help him.

His hands are shaking, as well as the rest of his body. He finds a way to get into bed without jarring his injured arm. Dean's so dizzy that the room is spinning, and the light above is harassing his fragile eyes. He wants Sam. Sam would make him feel better. But, once again, he's left with that dreaded fucking feeling of his brother hating his guts. Sam doesn't even want to be alive; why did he save him? When will he learn to leave him alone?

Dean's last thoughts are, of course, all about his brother.

* * *

Sam has been pacing back and forth in his bedroom since they got back. He's resorted to chewing mercilessly on his fingernails. He's so fucking pissed off at his brother that he's literally been alternating between throwing up and crying every few minutes. When he's not breaking down, he's pacing. Not that burning a hole through the floor is going to do anything, though. He made his peace with dying. He honest to God wanted it to be over.

And then Dean shows him once again that he'll never be able to let him go. At some point, Sam and Dean are both going to die for good, but one sure as hell better hope it's the older Winchester that goes first. Sam is so sick of his brother making these kind of epically fucking big decisions without consulting him. It's a purely selfish motive, and his brother needs to realize that he's not always going to be here. He just can't stand it anymore.

It's not that he doesn't actually want to be alive because he does now that he's back. But he doesn't like an angel possessing him to keep his heart beating and for said angel to heal him. That's not how it's supposed to be, and it makes every part of him feel disgustingly dirty. He would never subject Dean to any of that. When Sam went to Stanford, he let his brother go. When he went to Hell, he tried to get him back, but he eventually let him go. When he was thrown into Purgatory, he let his brother be at peace because he thought he was dead.

Don't get him wrong; he cares about Dean. Hell, he fucking loves him. He's his brother, and there's nothing he will ever be able to do about that. It's just that Dean can't keep doing this. He doesn't want to be alone, and that's definitely understandable, but this kind of running around isn't helping either of them. What's he going to do next? Sell his soul again? Take a bullet for him? Step in the way between yet another hunt to keep him from getting hurt?

He knows he shouldn't have kicked Dean, especially after he saw how bloody his face was and that his glasses may have gashed his eyes. And, seriously, he couldn't feel more terrible for that even if he tried. He needed to channel his anger in a different way, and he completely lost it and took it out on him. He's still mad. God, he's fucking mad. But the eerie silence stemming from his brother's room down the hall is so terrifying, and he doesn't know what to do.

There are tears leaking down his cheeks as he bites further into his nubby nails. He stops dead in his tracks to see if he can hear anything like a groan or a grumble or even just him moving on the sheets. But there's nothing. And Sam hopes that he's breathing and alive and okay. But he doesn't know, and he has to find out. He pads softly down the hallway in socked feet, lightly tapping his knuckles on the wooden door. There's no response.

So Sam does what any reasonable person would do and enters without welcome. His brother's clothes are discarded all over the room, and he's passed out on his bed, mouthing wide open. He shakes his head and walks closer, positive that he's okay and just sleeping. But that's when he realizes he isn't. Dean's lips are entirely blue, and his face is turning that color too. His chest and stomach have the imprint of his boot on them, and his arm is cradling protectively.

"Dean!" Sam screams, trying to shake him awake. It's okay, he decides. The injuries will just have to hold off until he wakes up. Why isn't he moving? Oh shit. Oh fuck. Vomit rises in the back of his throat, and he has to fight to keep it down. "Dean!" he shouts again, tears streaming down his face. Fuck. Oh God. He isn't moving, there's no air passing through, and his pulse is so wickedly faint. His heart is barely beating. He doesn't have long.

Sam begins CPR, rotating between providing puffs of breath to his deprived body and beating his heart back into a normal rhythm. His tears soak his brother's battered upper body. _C'mon, Dean. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to me._ And then there's a huge ass gasp, and Sam could yell with relief. It floods his system and makes him feel whole again. Only Dean's not having any of that, his face immediately devoid of all color, and his lips are still fucking blue.

"C-C-Can't bre-breathe..." Dean stammers out.

And that's all the incentive he needs to drag him to the hospital.

* * *

_February 12, 2014_

Sam has been waiting for over a day for his brother to wake up. He's thrown up so many times that he's sure his stomach has shrunk to the size of a pea. Worry riddles every fiber of his being, and he's never been so desperate to see Dean's goofy grin or see his eyes light up. He's going to be in the hospital for a bit while he recovers from a punctured lung, three broken ribs, a broken arm, and a severe concussion. But they'll work on getting him better together.

He has never felt so terrible in his whole life. He caused Dean's broken rib to puncture his lung. If he hadn't kicked him so fucking hard, he would be banged up, but not anywhere near as badly. Why did he have to lose his cool? Why does it always have to be like this? Sam's heel taps nervously on the tile to the beat he's drumming on his sweatpants to. His insides are quivering, and he runs a hand down his exhausted, stubbly face.

The younger Winchester nearly trips over himself trying to run to the doctor when he sees him.

"He's awake," the doctor says.

"Is he asking for me?" he asks, figuring that would be the first thing that left his mouth.

The doctor shakes his head. "He's probably confused."

No. Dean's never confused, not even with a bad concussion.

Sam pushes past him and sprints down the hall to his brother's room. He's right; he is awake. Dean's off the ventilator and breathing well through a one hundred percent oxygen mask. His face has tiny nicks in it from glass, and his right arm is plastered with a white cast. Dean's eyes are half-mast, and his expression doesn't change at all once he sees Sam. The brunette's heart sinks into the pit of his stomach, and he nervously sits down in a chair by his bedside.

"Hey, dude," he whispers. "How're you feeling?"

Dean shrugs with one shoulder, still emotionless.

Sam's anxiety has quadrupled in just the seconds he's been sitting here. He glances around the room with darting eyes. His brother is bruised, battered, and beaten, halfway by him. He's on oxygen, hooked up to two IVs, and is ghost white where he isn't blue and purple. The sight of his brother is enough to make him want to run to the bathroom and toss his cookies once again, but he doesn't. And it's getting worse because Dean is saying a word.

"I'm really sorry," Sam says quietly. "What I said the other night. I didn't mean it."

Dean shifts and looks dead in his eyes. "Save it. It's okay."

"What? No, Dean, it's not o-"

"It's fine, Sam. I'm fine," he tells him somehow weakly and strongly at the same time.

"Look, I'm trying to apolo-"

Dean shakes his head. "Don't want an apology. You were right."

Sam is about to open his mouth again when he sees a few tears pour from his brother's injured eyes. He doesn't even bother to wipe them away, which is so unlike Dean that it's sickening. Dean rolls slightly on his side to face the opposite direction, giving him as much of a cold shoulder as he can being this hurt. And that's when Sam realizes how much what he said hurt his brother. Hell, it fucking destroyed him.

And he's not sure if he'll ever be able to make up for it.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed this, HBKDEANRKO. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	61. Laura's-eyes (III)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thanks for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

Have you guys seen the continuation of the Always Keep Fighting campaign? Jensen and Jared's t-shirt and cell phone design is currently online. It's such a wonderful cause, and I've already bought my shirt! I'm excited to support such a wonderful cause. I have struggled with depression from a young age, and it's nice to see amazing men like these two involved with a campaign like this. I love Jensen, Jared, and Misha for all of their lovely contributions to the world. We truly do have such a beautiful SPN family to be proud of!

Also, Jensen posted on Facebook that he recently lost a dear friend of his. I just wanted to take this time to also wish my condolences to him, his family, and each person who was affected by his death. Rest in peace, Mike. Losing someone is never easy, which is all the reason to stay strong and keep fighting. I'm not trying to make this sound like a public service announcement or anything, but please know you are never alone, and people do love and care about you.

"Laura's-eyes" requested: "The boys are sent to either a boys home or a foster family when in their teens. Dean gets sick (with his asthma, maybe something in the environment where they are staying is making him worse, like an adult constantly smoking around him). It's a real tough place where they are pushed to their limits physically and mentally. Poor asthmatic Dean is struggling majorly, and Sammy is fiercely protective."

I know you said you wanted them to be in their teens, but I think it makes more sense in actuality to have Dean be a teen and Sam be a pre-teen. With that said, Dean is fifteen here, and Sam is eleven. I hope that change in age is okay with you, Laura's-eyes. =)

* * *

Laura's-eyes (III)

* * *

_July 6, 1994_

Dean doesn't know that he's still awake, huddled beneath his itchy covers, despite it being nearly ninety degrees in the room. He watches his brother through a small peephole he made in the blankets. The darkened figure of the blond boy is hunched over as he grips at his aching chest protectively, fingers snug tightly around the collar of his ratty t-shirt. Tears stream down eleven year old Sam Winchester's face for more than just that reason.

A recent hunt left him with a bruised cheekbone and black eye, which really pissed off his older brother. Dad swore not to take him hunting until he was twelve, but he's been an active member in the family business since he was a few months shy of ten. He turned eleven in May, and he's been on more hunts than he cares to count. But, Dad screwed up and told Dean to cover the marks with makeup. It wasn't Dean's fault, but he feels so terrible about what happened.

He was in gym, and they were running the mile as a part of the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. Sam is what Dean calls an overachiever, and, along with his superb academic skills, he aces all five sections of the test in record timing. He sweats just like any other kid doing activities would, and the cheap makeup his brother had applied that morning ran down his face, revealing the nasty contusions, which were then beginning to turn an unhealthy shade of blue.

And then his gym teacher spotted how banged up he was. Apparently, he forgot to account for the scrapes he had his knees from training, but he still doesn't think anything of that. Sam was taken into a room with a counselor, and he had to scream until he was blue in the face that John Winchester has never laid a hand on him. He's surprised with how drunk his dad typically is, but he has never so much as spanked him, which he sees other dads doing all the time.

Dean was gotten ahold of next at the high school a few blocks down and taken in for questioning. Dad's never hit him either, at least to Sam's knowledge. But no one believed either of them, especially after they found a nasty tombstone-shaped bruised on Dean's back that was in the process of healing. And that's how they ended up at a boys home. Apparently, they've been to one once before, but Sam was a toddler and doesn't recall it at all.

More tears slide down his cheeks as he struggles not to hyperventilate from watching his older brother struggle to breathe. The owners, Mr. Jim and Mrs. Kathy, are practically chain smokers, and Dean's had asthma since he was three, according to his dad. Plus, there's mold, and it stinks, and there's nails sticking out of the floor that he cut his foot on the first night here. Thankfully, Dean cleaned it out before it became infected, and he's positive it would have.

Smoking and asthma aren't exactly a grade A combination. Dean sometimes still coughs when they salt and burn a body, but Dad says he's gotten better about it over the years. Sam nearly emerges from the pile of blankets to help his brother, but he knows it will just make him angry. Dean's independent, and he especially doesn't like it when his kid brother tries to make sure he's okay. He doesn't quite understand why it bothers him so much.

He doesn't blame his dad or Dean. Sam only blames himself. His heart is thudding deeply into his chest, and he tries not to let his sniffling be audible. The last thing he needs is for Dean to catch him bawling like some spoiled baby. If he hadn't ran so hard or fast, maybe no one would have found the ugly bruises on his face. If anything, he thinks trying to hide it with makeup makes it seem more suspicious. He wonders what would have happened if the makeup were never put on.

Dean gasps loudly, but not enough so to wake up Mr. Jim or any of the other boys. Sam's heart is literally aching and breaking for his big brother. He's coughing, and Sam's sure his lips are turning blue. Eventually, he watches him settle back down into bed, still breathing heavily, but not wheezing as much or coughing. Somewhere along the line, Sam loses the battle with consciousness as well and dreams of his father's embrace.

* * *

Sam awakens a few hours later to his shoulders being shaken rapidly by his brother.

"C'mon, Sammy!" Dean shouts, his voice shot and raspy. "Get up!"

And he immediately knows he over slept, and a heavy lump grows in his throat. Mr. Jim doesn't like it when they're late to do their chores. Sam may have only been here for five days, but that doesn't mean a damn thing to him. He knows routines. Hell, Dean's kept him on the same one since he was seven. He's always told that he's too smart for his own good, and he wonders if this is one of those instances where that's going to bite him in the butt.

Sam doesn't hesitate any further; he tucks his socked feet into his shoes and follows his brother downstairs. Thankfully, their chores are together because he's really not sure how he would cope without Dean being next to him. Their only chore is to scrub each and every flow and toilet with a toothbrush. And he hates every freaking second of it. If he was sent here to get away from his "bad" father, then why is he being treated even worse?

The younger Winchester is highly conflicted by this entire mess. It's his fault, Dean's getting sick, and he can't do anything about it. He wants to call his dad and beg and plead for him to fix this, which he knows it what Dad's trying to do right now. They just have to survive a few more days, and then Dad will be here. Sam knows it. He walks the rest of the steps slowly, gauging a good look at his brother, who is slumped over and wheezing as he walks. His normally spikey hair is matted to his forehead, and his cheeks are bright red.

"Where have you two brats been? We've been waiting for five minutes!" is what Sam hears the instant begin to harshly scrub the floors on their hands and knees. Sam still aches everywhere he can imagine from the past few days; being in this scrunched up position for up to eight hours a day is hard, even for an eleven year old with a ton of stamina and flexibility. His neck is killing him because he has to keep staring at the floor as opposed to looking up.

"Sorry, sir," Dean mumbles.

"We're sorry," Sam says too, just in case he brings out the belt again.

Mr. Jim shakes his head. "You two Winchesters have caused me more trouble than any of these other boys combined."

Sam gulps, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. _Please don't get the belt._ Dad never hits either of them. Why on earth were they taken away from him if everything else here sucks big time? Mr. Jim removes the belt from the waistband of his holey jeans, and Sam's insides begin to quiver rapidly. He goes to make the first move on Dean first, but the younger Winchester stands up quickly. "Don't punish him. Punish me. I'm the one who made us late."

The small brunette has never really had to stand up for Dean before in both a literal and actual sense. Dean's always been the one to take care of bullies and make sure he was okay. But Sam knows that his big brother is in no position to be swatted, especially with how bad his asthma has gotten since they've been here. Dean glares at him, which freaks out Sam even more. He's left there trembling with uncertainty and waiting to be hit, face pinched.

"Well, aren't you a tough one standing up for your brother like that," Mr. Jim says. "But it's too late." And then he starts whacking Dean on his clothed back and butt harshly with the black belt. Sam flinches with every contact made with skin, but Dean doesn't bother to show emotions. The eleven year old knows his back is welted and bruised and probably bleeding again, and he also knows it has to hurt, but Dean's not an easy person to crack when it comes to pain.

Sam is mentally and physically bracing himself for the blows to come his way, but they never do. Mr. Jim just chuckles and puts his belt back on, commanding both of them to get back to work. Sam finds himself unclenching parts of his body he didn't know were that stressed out, and he breathes out an almost sigh of relief. And then his brain realizes Dean's sick and now hurt again, and he crawls on the tile floor over to his brother, who is breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, still trying to make it seem like he's working.

Dean nods. "No thanks to you."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean for that to happen. Does it hurt?"

He's the proud recipient of another glare. "What do you think?"

"I'm so sorry! I tried to help."

Dean exhales loudly. The next breath he takes in his wheezy. "I know you didn't, Sammy. Just, next time, let me handle things."

"But what about your asthma?"

"What about it? Sam, this dude doesn't care. We'll make it until Dad gets us."

_You might not if you don't get some help._

* * *

_July 7, 1994_

Dean's shirt is hitched up in the back while he sleeps on his stomach. Sam carefully lifts it, and he's extremely happy when his big brother doesn't even move at the sudden touch. It's one giant mar of purplish blue bruising, and there are open welts that are still oozing bits of blood. Sam runs to a mirror in the bathroom and lifts up his own shirt, checking to see if his look anywhere near as bad as Dean's because then they'd both be in huge trouble.

But he's fine, as always. Sam's normally the one who walks away with a few cuts and scratches, while Dean jumps in front of him to save him and ends up breaking arms and legs and whatever else. He's walking back into the main bedroom where all of the boys sleep when he sees Dean sitting up in bed, eyes wide and lips turning blue. Sam immediately sprints over there and sits down on the bed, putting his hands on his brother's shoulders.

"Breathe, Dean," he says softly, rubbing his thumbs lightly into his collarbones. "Try to make your breathing match mine." He breathes in and out slowly, but not too slowly to cause him to pass out. Dean nods, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks. Eventually, his breathing evens out a bit, even if it's still hitching in his throat. He's wheezing loudly, and he's trying hard not to lose it all in front of him. Sam's not used to being the caretaker.

Dean collapses into his chest, despite that Sam is several inches shorter and weighs way less than him. Sam gathers his hold on his brother, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Dean never shows this kind of affection or emotion, even if he is practically dying from an asthma attack. They've ran out of medicine in apartments and motels before, but it's never been bad because Dad gets places where no one has smoked in them.

"Shh... You're okay, Dean," Sam whispers, running his hands through his hair.

And then it happens. "What in the Sam Hill is goin' on up here?"

Dean instantly flinches away and wipes his teary eyes, and Sam stands straight up off of the bed.

"Looky there, the Winchesters are at it again."

Sam doesn't get this guy at all. They can't even breathe in this boys home without getting into some sort of trouble. He misses Dad, and he desperately wants to go back home to where it's just him and his brother. Dean will make lunch and read him books, despite the fact that Sam's been able to read chapter stories since he was four, thanks to his big brother. The younger Winchester wants to deck this guy in his face and tell him to go to hell.

"We didn't do anything wrong," Sam spits out.

"Oh, you didn't?" Mr. Jim says. "We'll see about that. You," he points to Dean. "Drop and give me a hundred."

Dean's eyes widen. "What? No way!" his voice is basically gone, and he's sweating all over already.

"What was that? Did you just say no to me, boy?"

"Hell yeah he did," Sam says.

"Wait until you boys see what's up next."

And then Mr. Jim grabs his pocketknife from his jeans pocket, and Sam swallows the bile rising in his throat.

* * *

_July 8, 1994_

Sam's curled up on his brother's rapidly rising and falling belly. He doesn't want to be here anymore, and he can't make the tears stop leaking from his eyes. He's shaking beneath the blanket Dean has wrapped around him, and, even though he knows Dean's asthma is getting worse, he can't make himself work. He feels like a terrible person, brother, and son for getting them into this mess, and he isn't sure how he's supposed to get them out.

After the knife fiasco, which resulted in Mr. Jim slicing the palms of their dominant hands to make scrubbing the tile floor even more "fun," he hasn't wanted to leave his brother's side. And it's not for Dean's sake, it's for both of theirs. Sam sniffles and chokes back more vomit. His entire body is aching, and he's congested, and he wants to go home. Dean is running his hands through his hair, which he normally likes, but it hurts a lot right now.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean whispers. "You've got a fever, man."

_Great. So it can get worse._

It's nearly ten at night, and all of the others ten boys have fallen asleep, soft snores filling the small room. Sam is completely exhausted, but he can't make himself rest. It's like his body is on some devilish sugar high. "You should sleep too," he tells his brother, twisting the fabric of his worn t-shirt in his fingers. Dean coughs quietly, and Sam feels him rubbing his chest, pushing down hard on it as opposed to coasting over it gently.

"Don't worry about me."

"When do you think Dad will be here?"

"Soon."

"But when? Why isn't he here yet?"

"Sammy," Dean says gently. "I wish I could tell you, buddy, but I can't."

More tears stream down his face, and his entire body begins to shudder. Dean practically lifts him up and wraps his arms around him, kissing the top of his head lightly and rubbing his back. "I-I tr-tried to h-help," he stammers, slamming his face into his brother and sobbing violently. Sam can't get ahold of his emotions; they're shot. He's not equipped to handle all of this stress since Dean's usually the one who takes it from him willingly.

"It's okay, Sammy. I love you, baby brother. That will never change."

Sam hiccups. "I d-didn't me-mean to get you h-hurt."

"I know. I know. Everything will be okay."

"H-How do y-you know?"

Sam can practically feel him smile. "Because I would never let anyone or anything hurt you."

* * *

_July 11, 1994_

"Winchesters! Let's go!"

Sam groans, and Dean coughs loudly. Both boys drag their asses down the steps, prepared for another form of sadistic beating or torture or chores or whatever. Sam's still wobbly on his feet and hazy from his fever, but he's just worried about how pale and lethargic Dean has become. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, it's like freaking Christmas. John Winchester is standing in the door, smiling brightly and, for once, looking entirely sober.

"Dad!" Sam and Dean both shout at the same time. They run into their father's arms and embrace him lovingly, and Sam practically melts into the feeling of safety and comfortability. Dad squeezes them back tightly. They've been through hell the past few days, but they're going now. They don't even bother to get their smoke riddled clothing from upstairs, Sam and Dean just leave with their father's arms wrapped protectively around them.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Laura's-eyes. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	62. headinthecloudsgirl (I)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reviewing, requesting, reading, following, and favoriting! I truly appreciate it! =)

headinthecloudsgirl requested: "I would love me some concussed Dean who has vertigo attacks as a symptom and/or aftereffect, whatever you like best. I think that these things have to suck big time, with the dizziness and vomiting and stuff." I am so surprised that with all of the knocks to the head these boys seem to receive in the show that neither of them have ever showed symptoms of a concussion. Maybe one day we will get what we all want, haha.

I'm going to set this one in season two.

* * *

headinthecloudsgirl (I)

* * *

_May 4, 2007_

"D'ya thin' Batman's real, S'mmy?" Dean slurs. Sam ignores him and places their one clean towel on the wound on the side of his head that's gushing blood all over the damn place. Immediately above Dean's right eye is split open, and there's crimson freaking everywhere. Sam has to silently take deep breaths to calm himself; he hasn't seen this much blood from a head trauma ever. His brother really must have smacked his thick skull hard on that tree.

His older brother asks about the probability of his favorite superhero being alive again, only this time he justifies it with the whole "well, we hunt ghosts and monsters, so Batman is real too" argument. It's so humid that Sam's collared shirt is sticking to his back uncomfortably as he tries to will the rapid loss of blood to stop. The blue towel is now stained red, and Dean's eyes are drooping closed with each passing second. "Hey! Stay awake!" he shouts.

"G'tta be r'l, S'mmy..." he manages, visibly swaying even though he's lying down on the muddy ground. Sam just holds the towel to his more so damaged brain and prays that nothing was too further rattled up there. His stomach is in knots, and his hands shake from how much pressure he's having to apply. This is going to be a time where he needs the staple gun and hot glue, instead of the usual stitches; it's the worst physical shape he's seen his brother in in a long time.

"Dean!" Sam bellows. "Man, you gotta stay awake!" He taps him lightly on the cheek, and Dean gives him a watery, bloody grin, his eyes practically going cross-eyed. Oh shit. Smacking head first into that tree and cutting himself open definitely isn't a good start to their month. His eyes flutter between open and closed, and Sam begins to hoist his brother off of the ground. "Dean," he says more softly this time. "Please try to stay awake."

His brother nods into his t-shirt, and Sam can feel the sheer force of him quivering against him. It's not cold by any means outside, but the shaking is a sign of significant blood loss. They need a motel fast, and he's incredibly thankful that theirs is only a few miles from this old house. Dean somehow manages to cooperate and hold the towel to his head on his own, stumbling drunkly while using his younger brother as a giant crutch.

"Th'nk I coul' take B'tman?"

Sam maneuvers him into the passenger seat of the Impala. He pulls out a Ziploc bag and puts a few pieces of ice from the cooler in the backseat in there. "Put this on your lip," he commands, which, incidentally, is busted open too. Blood. More blood. And more blood. Dean's staring at him with half-mast puppy dog eyes, waiting patiently for an answer to his inquiry. Sam sighs, but complies with, "I think you'd kick his ass." And then he speeds off into the night.

* * *

Unfortunately, Dean doesn't make it to the motel without tossing his cookies. He's on his hands and knees in the dirt and mud on the side of the road, quivering beneath Sam's reassuring touch. Even though it's springtime and incredibly warm out here to him, he can only imagine that the next step in this is for his brother to come down with a cold. It would be just their luck, and he can't honestly picture it going down any other way than that.

"Shh, Dean," he coaxes, forcing his brother to lean back against his chest. Dean is coughing and gagging, but slowly beginning to calm down. Sam nearly craps his pants when the blond grabs on to his hand, squeezing it tightly. He takes this chance to kiss him gently on top of his spikey hair, something he would typically kill him for. Right now, though, between the blood loss and the obvious concussion, Dean isn't in his usual state of mind.

"S'ck," he mumbles.

The younger Winchester nods. "Yeah, I know, buddy." He removes the towel wrapped around his head and pulls out a flashlight, carefully inspecting the wound. The bleeding has slowed down considerably, but he needs to get both wounds closed before an infection sets in. "Are you good to move?" he whispers. Dean nods, and Sam carefully picks him up, carrying him the foot or two to the car. His brother coughs and sniffles, rubbing his chest.

Sam internally groans and takes his seat behind the wheel of the Impala. Without any warning, Dean scoots over to settle his head on his shoulder, eyes instantly drooping closed the second he makes contact with his wet t-shirt. He doesn't shrug him off because, quite frankly, a quiet Dean is a good Dean, even if he has to lightly shake him awake every few seconds. He can't fall asleep until he can further assess the wound, which doesn't look so hot right now.

He puts the car into drive, and Dean sits up with wide eyes and promptly vomits all over his baby.

* * *

"Hey, buddy," Sam says, nudging his brother, who has, undoubtedly, fallen asleep against his shoulder. Dean is sitting in a puddle of his own vomit, some of which is still stringing out of his open mouth. The younger Winchester grimaces, but he somehow gets his brother to show his bloodshot eyes. He's got a fever flush spread across his cheeks, and Sam wishes they could have cleaned up the puke a little more than this. But, the towel on his head is the only one they have, and there's literally nothing else they can do about it, which makes him feel terrible.

Sam carries his ill brother bridal style into the bathroom of the motel. He'll deal with cleaning the Impala later. Dean is entirely out of it while he undresses him and puts him in the shower. His first order of business is to get clean boxers and a long sleeved shirt for him. Then, he gathers up the supplies to close the gashes on the side of his head and above his eye. After that, he helps his brother out of the shower, somehow lets him air dry, and gets him dressed.

He lays him down in bed on his side, and Dean closes his eyes once more, determined not to witness this part. Sam has to put nearly twenty staples in the side of his head, which he binds together finally with hot glue, but he makes sure it doesn't burn him at all. Thank God Dean is super particular about his hair being short, otherwise he would have had to shave around the area so it could heal properly. He covers the area with antiseptic cream.

Since he is going to wake Dean up every hour on the hour, he takes these sixty minutes to clean out the Impala. Hopefully Dean won't remember that part.

* * *

_May 5, 2007_

"How're you feeling?" Sam asks quietly, noting that his brother's eyes have just popped open. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since their little incident, and Dean has passed every one of his cognition tests. Clearly, he didn't sustain anymore brain damage than he already has. Since they've reached the one day mark, he can now sleep straight through the night as opposed to being woken up every hour, which he's sure Dean's glad about.

Since then, Dean has showered, shaved, and inspected Sam's handy work on his head. He's bundled beneath the comforter, watching TV out of crooked glasses that are only covering one eye. His right eye is swollen and red, but thankfully it isn't black, and he can still see out of it. Sam sits down on the edge of the bed and rubs his shoulder comfortingly through the blankets. Dean looks at him, gulps, and swallows harshly.

"You okay?"

Dean shakes his head. "Think I'm gonna be sick..."

And Sam sprints to grab the trashcan before it's too late. He's incredibly happy when he places it beneath his chin just in time. Dean pukes up a sea of yellow and orange and falls back into bed exhaustedly, huffing and burping. Sam notes that he's swaying involuntarily once again and wonders if he's suffering from bouts of vertigo, which can often present itself in this manner. "Are you dizzy, man And do your ears hurt?" he questions, watching Dean's eyes light up briefly.

"Don't hurt. They feel clogged though."

Sam nods. "Okay, I think it's vertigo."

Dean doesn't respond, and he looks entirely drugged and zoned out.

Welp, the next few days should be fun.

* * *

_May 6, 2007_

Today is the first day that they're going to try to leave the motel room, especially since Dean is driving Sam absolutely fricking nuts. He doesn't want to settle down and rest anymore; he wants to get up to Bobby's five states away to find out what they should do next. Plus, he says he also wants him to maybe bake him a blueberry pie, but that's beside the point. Sam shakes his head and sighs as he watches his brother shave his face a bit harshly.

And then, all of a sudden, Dean stops cold in his movements. He sways back and forth and then drops to the ground, missing banging his head on the ceramic by less than an inch. Sam gets up and sprints over to his ailing brother's side, who is placing his head in between his knees. Shaving cream is all over him, and he's breathing extremely heavily. Sam grabs the inhaler out of his jeans pockets since he now keeps one on him too and tries to breathe for Dean.

Dean keeps his head tucked in between his knees after. Sam places a warm hand on his back and rubs it gently, noticing how tensed and clenched his muscles feel. The gash on the side of his head is huge and bruised and will definitely leave quite the scar. He wouldn't be surprised if Dean started wearing his hair a tad bit longer to cover it up since he's always so concerned about his appearance. Eventually, Dean gathers the energy to look at Sam.

"Dizzy," is all he says.

Sam nods. "Yeah, a concussion will do that to you. You sleepy?"

Dean agrees with the statement, and Sam begins to wipe the shaving cream off of his face. At least he was mostly finished, otherwise it would be weird to see him with a half a face of stubble and the other half clean-shaven. Once he does that, he hoists Dean up and lets him use him as a crutch. His brother climbs on to his bed and lies down on the fluffy pillows, rolling flat on to his stomach, which Sam knows makes him feel less dizzy.

"G'night, S'mmy," he murmurs.

Sam smiles slightly. "Goodnight, Dean."

* * *

_May 7, 2007_

Dean hasn't moved out of bed since his shaving cream fainting episode that occurred yesterday. Sam notes how frequently he falls asleep and how cold the blood loss has been making him. While he's been relaxing in a t-shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans, Dean has since burrowed himself in thick sweatpants and Sam's charcoal hoodie. His brother is listlessly watching some cheesy romance movie on the television when Sam approaches him.

At first, Dean doesn't say anything when Sam lies down next to him. It's crazy because he normally would, but he guesses he doesn't have the energy to say anything. Sam's tired of having to wake up and check to see if he's breathing in the middle of the night, so he decided hours ago that sleeping beside his brother would help both of them. Dean would never admit it, but Sam has this little brother intuition that knows his big brother does enjoy being coddled sometimes.

So, when Sam throws his arms around his brother and pulls him to his chest, Dean immediately tries to protest by squirming away, but Sam continues to hold him close. Eventually, the blond settles down, huffing into his green shirt. "Go to sleep, bro," the brunette whispers, running his hands up and down the older Winchester's back. The way to get his brother to sleep is and has always been to rub his back; it's a secret that only Sam and Dad when he was alive knew.

Dean's breathing finally evens out, and he sighs contently into his brother's chest.

* * *

_May 8, 2007_

The blond Winchester is pumping gas when Sam watches him fall to his knees, gasoline spilling out of the pump. Thankfully, none of it gets on either of them as Sam pulls him away from the puddle, helping his brother puts his head in between his knees once again. Dean promptly rolls away and attempts to fall face first into the concrete, vomiting up everything he managed to keep down yesterday, which was just a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of blue Gatorade.

"Dean," Sam says exasperatedly not angrily. He pulls him up once he's doing and wipes away the mess with his fingers, not even caring anymore. Maybe they shouldn't have left for Bobby's today. Even though the brunette has been the one driving, Dean said Sam would screw up putting gas in Baby, so he opted to do it. Since Dean hasn't been as noticeably dizzy today, he assumed that he would be okay to do this small task, but apparently he was dead wrong.

"S'rry," he says.

Sam shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, dude. Let's get you back in the car."

* * *

_May 9, 2007_

By the time they arrive at Bobby's, Dean is sprawled out in the backseat, snoring quite loudly. He's covered with the army blanket from the trunk and is using one of Sam's coats as a makeshift pillow. Instead of waking him up, especially after the gas station issue yesterday, Sam decides to carry him into Bobby's house himself. Once the old man opens the door, he smiles, but it drops immediately as he gets a good look at the obvious ill Winchester.

"What happened to him?"

Sam shrugs. "Concussion. And he's having a major vertigo problem."

"Let's get him upstairs."

Bobby leads the way to the bedroom they typically share when they're here. Dean continues snoring his head off, head lolled on to Sam's chest. The baseball cap wearing man pulls the old quilt back, and the younger of the two boys gently places his brother into bed, covering him up. Dean's eyes pop open as soon as he makes contact with the mattress, and he looks visibly shaken from the sudden change in position and movement.

"Relax, boy," Bobby says, soothing his hair gently. "We've got ya."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it, headinthecloudsgirl. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	63. Skipper96 (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! I truly do appreciate it. =)

Writing these has really helped me grow to love Sam. It's not that I didn't like him before because I did, in fact I was definitely a Sam girl the entire first season. In season four, I began to question how I felt about him, and I still do think he has quite a bit of selfishness in him. However, writing these one-shots has helped me explore other aspects of his character and why he reacts the way he does. Even if it is pure speculation, I think I now understand Sam Winchester more than I ever did before. Honestly, both of the brothers work perfectly together for me, even at their more dysfunctional times. It's just weird how I wasn't overly fond of Sam before, and now I love him to pieces.

Skipper96 requested: "Hey, I just got this idea after rewatching season 8. The trails have worn Sam down and Dean has run himself ragged from caring for his brother and ends up coming down with the flu. He keeps insisting he's fine when Sam brings it up until Dean collapses from exhaustion." I have always wanted to write a one-shot about this, and I'm glad the opportunity has come for me to get to fulfill a prompt that I've wanted to write for a while now.

This is set in between 8x19 "Taxi Driver" and 8x20 "Pac-Man Fever."

* * *

Skipper96 (II)

* * *

_April 21, 2013_

"Don't feel so good, Dee," Sam mumbles, snuggling his face into the white fluffiness of his pillow. He has zero energy to do much else besides squirm and shiver, so even daring to utter a word is taxing. Sam coughs into a wadded up tissue he has in front of his mouth, specks of blood and phlegm coating the surface. He wheezes, and his chest seizes. Sweat trickles down his face and into his mouth, which he tries ineffectively to spit away.

The older Winchester notices his brother's struggle and chuckles slightly. He wipes the ill brunette's face with a cold, wet washcloth, relief flooding over him when Sam sighs in contempt. Dean places the rag over his forehead, but not before checking to see if his fever has climbed higher. It almost feels as though it's beginning to break, and he prays that it is because it's been day and night of talking and even singing his brother through panicked nightmares.

Since the second trial, Sam has definitely been a completely different dude. He pukes up blood, needs to be coddled on constantly, and has seemingly reverted back to being five years old again. Dean's motto has always been "anything for Sammy," and he will forever stand by that. But, he hasn't slept more than a couple hours here and there in nearly a week, and he has a terrible back and neck ache that is making even standing a hard task.

Even though Sam does sleep a majority of the time he's sick, Dean can't stop worrying long enough to rest. He's resorted to moving his baby brother into his bedroom to get some _real_ sleep on his wonderful memory foam mattress. He practically smothers him in warm blankets and comfy, flannel pajamas, despite the fact that the temperature is nearly tropical in the bunker. Sam can never get comfortable until Dean has his arms wrapped around him though.

And that's hard. Sam has never been this clingy while he's ill, and it's just so fricking weird compared to how much he's grown up in his life. Sam hasn't called him "Dee" since he was, like, ten, and now it's like saying the "n" at the end of his name is a curse or spell. A clammy, cold hand wraps around his as he begins to walk back into the kitchen to look for something to eat, beckoning for him to stay. And Dean does because he can't let his brother down.

Sam watches the blond's slow and rigid movements through blurry eyes. Dean's been running himself into the ground, and, even though he feels like shit himself, he can't help but realize how hard he's been working. Dean has bathed, clothed, fed, mothered, and medicated him to death, and he's starting to look as though he hasn't slept in years. There are dark bags beneath his eyes, and his face is almost entirely grey, despite nearly half of it being hidden beneath thick stubble.

Dean pulls Sam close to his chest and begins to run his hands through his long hair. Sam hugs his brother to let him know that everything will be okay. He knows things since the second trial haven't been easy for his brother either, who is trying desperately to make sure Sam is one hundred percent okay. Somewhere along the line, both Winchester fall fast asleep, even though Sam's running a fever, and Dean feels like he's starting to drown in himself.

* * *

_April 22, 2013_

The older Winchester's hands shake as he stirs the soup he's making for his younger brother. He wipes his drippy nose on to his long sleeved shirt, a streak of snot spread across his arm. Yuck. Dean shrugs it off and tries to also ignore the relentless pounding in his head that gets worse with each labored breath he takes. His focus is entirely on getting the stubborn Sam to actually get some nutrition into his body; he really needs it, especially after the weight loss.

Dean himself can tell he's lost quite a few pounds by how freaking baggy his clothes are now. He's exhausted and not afraid to admit it to his own mind, but he will never let on to how poorly he feels to his already sick little brother. Sam doesn't need to know that he checked his temperature around two this morning and found it to be higher than Sam's, who is still cranking at a decent enough temperature to make him absolutely miserable.

So, he pushes on. His brother needs him, and no amount of aching muscles or vomiting will stop him. Dean puts the vegetable soup into a plastic bowl, places it on a tray along with meds and a glass of orange juice, and makes the seemingly long journey to his bedroom, where Sam is holed up with the TV on and closed eyes. He's buried deeply beneath the two comforters on top of him, only strands of his hair poking over the top of the covers.

Dean shakes his shoulder as gently as possible. "Sammy," he whispers. "Time to eat."

The younger Winchester creaks open painful eyes into the darkness of his blanket abyss. Dean's voice processes through his brain, but his body feels like it's made of lead, so he doesn't move. Sitting up to eat anything would take too much energy, and he doesn't feel like he has any at all. His eyes are already drooping closed once again when Dean hoists him up against the bedframe and places the spoon in his right hand. Sam huffs. "Don't wanna."

"Well, that's too bad. You need to eat something."

Sam shakes his head. "Tired," he mumbles.

"I know you are, Sammy. I promise I'll leave you alone to sleep for the rest of the day if you eat this soup."

The offer is actually tempting, especially since Dean wakes him up every three to four hours to make sure his brains haven't fried. However, Sam doesn't even have the strength to maneuver the soupspoon to his mouth, much less accomplish the task without spilling it all over himself. He gives his brother a look, praying he understands it without him having to say it with words. It would be humiliating, and he honestly just can't find the energy to do it.

Dean nods and briefly smiles, letting Sam knows it's okay. He'll be his brother's crutch for the rest of his life; it doesn't matter to him. He picks up the spoon and gives him enough time to feel comfortable with the next bites. Before he knows it, Sam has eaten three-fourths of the soup and is practically green, so Dean stops there. He just really really hopes he can keep it down long enough to digest. He helps lay Sam back down in the bed and covers his upper body back up.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks quietly.

Dean's eyebrows rise. "Um, yeah. You're the sick one, dude."

Sam shrugs. "You just look... exhausted."

"I'm fine, Sammy. Get some rest, and work on getting yourself feeling better."

The brunette drops it, knowing there's no use in competing. Dean removes the tray from his lap and begins to walk toward the kitchen on trembling legs. He doesn't bother to immediately do the dishes; he just drops the glass, spoon, and bowl into the sink. He stumbles to the living room couch and grabs the leather jacket he left there whenever and however long ago and throws it on. His entire body is shivering massively. He sits down on the couch and clicks on the television, crossing his arms over his quivering chest and putting his boot clad feet on the coffee table.

He's asleep within seconds.

* * *

Sam awakens with a headache, a bad one at that. It feels as though his brain is splitting open and leaking out into the rest of his body. There's snot pooling out of his nose and sliding into his mouth, and he coughs loudly, his chest rattling and crackling. _Dean. Where's Dean?_ He typically regains consciousness to find his brother watching TV in the bed, waiting patiently for him to wake up in between the three to four hour increments before he wakes him himself.

But Dean's nowhere to be found. On occasions, Sam will find him hunched over the desk, scribbling words into the hunting journal he pretends not to keep. Sam somehow finds the energy within his growing curiosity to push himself out of bed, his head screaming at him to instantly lie back down. He pushes on, though, and enters the living room area to find what he was suspectful of all along. Maybe his brother really is run down, and it wasn't just fever dreams.

Dean is leaning back on the couch with his mouth wide open, snoring viciously through almost congested sounding breathing. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his facial express is pinched and painful looking. He's wearing his leather jacket inside. Sam knows it's late April, which means it's in the 60s and 70s outside, which is perfectly weather for the both of them. Dean typically gets cold easily, but definitely not this easily.

At the sound of Sam's bare feet smacking the concrete floor, Dean snorts himself awake, stretching and popping his sore muscles. He knuckles his eyes and then blears at Sam, who is a few feet away from him. "Sammy! What're you doin' out of bed?" he asks, hopping on to his feet to catch his swaying brother. The brunette practically collapses against his chest, and Dean holds him close to his chest in fear of him falling over.

"Dee," Sam says quietly. "Do you feel okay?"

The older Winchester rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Sam. I'm fine."

"It's just... you feel really warm."

_Shit._ He removes himself from Sam and helps him over to the couch, lying him down on it. He retrieves a few quilts from the hall closet and drapes them over his ill brother. Dean's entire body is shaking forcefully, and he would enjoy and prefer curling up in a ball for two weeks and not waking up until his head didn't hurt so much. "I'm okay," he whispers, soothing Sam's damp hair off of his forehead. "I'll watch over you, baby brother."

* * *

_April 23, 2013_

Helping Sam bathe when an incredible backache is terrifying. Dean thought his back was going to seize up, and would be stuck like that for the rest of his life. He is shampooing his ill brother's hair when Sam opens his bloodshot eyes to stare up at him. "What?" he asks. He's been sucking on nasty ass eucalyptus candies to hide the congestion in his voice, and he's happy to hear that they're actually working as opposed to leaving his voice the way it was this morning.

"You don't look so good."

Dean rolls his eyes, but keeps kneading his fingers through his hair. "For the one thousandth time: I'm fine, Sammy. Worry about yourself." He doesn't say it in a rude way; he just doesn't want his brother to panic over him when he's perfectly able of taking care of himself. He can't wait until he's done with this and gets to lie down in bed. Despite the fact that he's been getting a lot of sleep the past few days, he has never felt more wiped out in his life.

He lets Sam apply the body wash, but he helps rinse it off. Sam listlessly snuggles his head in the corner and closes his eyes. To Dean, he looks all of ten years old, even though he's a 6'4" giant. He doubts he'll ever stop seeing his pain in the ass little brother as a kid. Dean's breathing hitches when a cough begins to tickle at the back of his throat, and he grabs his chest with a soapy hand out of habit. Inhaler. Shit. But he'll wait to get Sam out of the tub before he does anything.

Dean drains the hot bath water and helps his brother into a red long sleeved shirt and grey sweatpants. He towels dries his long hair, the entire time thinking about how badly he needs to cough. But Sam is already suspicious enough as it is, so he has to keep hiding. His worst fear currently is that he will never get better, and that absolutely won't happy if he keeps upping his anxiety by worrying about how Dean feels instead of himself.

The instant Sam is cuddled into bed with the TV on, Dean walks back to the bathroom to use his inhaler. Instead of the usual one, it takes three puffs off of it to relieve the discomfort and wheezing in his chest. He grabs the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet and gently sticks it under his aching arm. He doesn't have to wait long for it to beep. 103.4. Jesus. He dry swallows some ibuprofen and NyQuil before heading to bed with Sam.

He doesn't bother to change out of his jeans and Henley; he just rolls on to his side, facing away from Sam. Little does he know, Sam is still awake and staring at his brother intently. He's sick, definitely sick. The younger Winchester can feel him shivering and his teeth chattering from here. But, he knows when Dean falls asleep, and this isn't it. Before he has a chance to cover him up, Sam falls into a dreamless sleep, leaving his brother alone.

* * *

_April 24, 2013_

Dean's arms are trembling as he wraps them around the toilet bowl, harshly expelling what very little he's eaten in the last few days. His entire body is utterly exhausted, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep this up. It's been _days_ of him medicating himself and Sam regularly, and neither of them are getting any better. He knows Sam's isn't likely to get better until the trials are over, but he's more than ready to get to feeling at least a little bit better.

He coughs, and more puke erupts from his esophagus like a Jetstream. His throat is killing him, his back, neck, and head are in knots, and the fever he's been struggling with for days has gotten wildly out of control. He doesn't understand, and he doesn't want to worry his brother, but he needs help. And, suddenly, before he knows it, his vision has gone completely black, and he's slumped on to his side beside the toilet, completely out like a light.

* * *

Sam awakens, once again, to find that his brother is missing. It's a little past six in the morning, so he should still be asleep. Sam, feeling a bit better with more energy, pushes himself up and clicks on the bedside lamp to find a Dean-sized sweat stain where his older brother is supposed to be. Shit. Thankfully, his head isn't as swimmy, and he can put one foot in front of the other enough to move toward the bathroom, where he has a hunch he will be.

"Dean!" he shouts, dropping on to his knees immediately. Dean is sprawled out on his side, yellow throw up staining his shirt and chin. He checks his pulse to find it weak and thready, and, beneath his fingers, Dean is burning up. If there were a God to thank, Sam would be doing it right now because he's not sure how he manages to lift his brother into the shower, neglecting to strip him from his clothes. He turns on the water as cold as it would go.

"Wha?" Dean mumbles, shaking awake and scrubbing the wetness out of his eyes. It takes what feels like hours for his brain to realize he's in the shower. With his clothes on. And sick. Dammit. "S'mmy?" he questions, searching for his brother, even though he doesn't move an inch from his spot on the shower floor. His mind feels muddled, his body hurts all over, and his nose is dripping enough snot to fill bottles of water for the kids in Africa.

"Shh, Deano," Sam says. "I gotta get that fever down."

"No," Dean whines. "'m suppos'd t'be takin' care of you..."

Sam sticks his head in the shower, tears evident in his eyes. "You did take care of me, buddy. And don't ever think I wouldn't take care of you. You should've told me it was this bad. I could have helped."

The wet blond shakes his head. "Sick too."

"I know, but, Dean, this can't ever happen again. You have to talk to me."

He nods. "S'rry..."

"Don't be sorry. I love you, dude. And I'm gonna help you like you helped me."

* * *

Eventually, Sam gets Dean into clean pajamas, despite his trembling hands and massive headache. He medicates his brother first and then follows shortly with doses of ibuprofen and NyQuil for himself. He wraps the shorter man in a blanket and then carries him into the bedroom where they've both been sleeping. He plugs in the electric comforter and drapes it over Dean, who sighs in contempt as he cuddles deeper into his pillow.

Sam can't help but smile through his own discomfort. Dean is always so willing to throw himself under the bus in order to make sure Sam is feeling okay, but he rarely realizes what it's doing to his own body before it's too late. This, however, is how the younger of the Winchester brothers returns the favor. No matter what, he will always be here to help make sure his brother knows how deeply he cares for him and how eternally grateful he truly is.

The brunette snuggles down into bed, and Dean instantly moves to wrap his arms around him, holding him close. "Love you, S'mmy," he slurs. "Won't let anythin' h'rt you..." Sam just hugs him back, running a hand through his hair before kissing the top of his damp, spikey hair.

"I love you too, Deano. Don't ever forget that."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Skipper96! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	64. lenail125 (III)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reviewing, requesting, reading, following, and favoriting! I truly do appreciate it! =)

I am hoping to write a new story this summer, but I'm not sure how it's going to go. I was offered a 40-hour a week job, and I will be working Sunday through Thursday every week, so I'll probably update on the weekends. Unfortunately, there's just no way that I'll be able to update everyday, even though, ideally, that is what I wanted to do. Once school starts back up in August, I might be able to swing that, but I just wanted to let you guys know.

Also, I think I have decided more on the plot of the story. It will be from multiple point of views with the focus on Dean from birth until the current point in the story. I have always felt that Cas is honest to God Dean's guardian angel, so Cas's character will morph as he grows to know little Dean to big Dean, and I'm going to talk quite a bit about his rebellion from heaven. I intend on this story being pretty damn long, especially since I'm going to start with Mary being pregnant with Dean and Cas learning who this infant is going to grow up to be.

On another note: I re-watched all of season four and five and cried like a baby during "Swan Song." Again. For the forth time.

lenail125 requested: "What about a story where Dean has to be put on a ventilator after a very bad asthma attack... The usual with protective and worried Sam. He has to be on a ventilator for like three days, and Sam stays with him all the time they are in the hospital." I feel like if one brother is in the hospital, the other one will stay with them the entire time. Plus, this is definitely true for Sam's character, who would be way too worried to go without his brother.

I'm going to set this one in season five (AU).

Quotes taken from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's _A Study in Scarlett._

* * *

lenail125 (III)

* * *

_September 11, 2009 _

Dean's been sick for days, and it isn't getting any better. No amount of humidifier use alleviates the seemingly growing congestion in his chest and nose, and his temperature hasn't dropped below 101 in days. He's beyond miserable and would rather put a bullet through his skull than deal with the nausea and queasiness coming from his _chest_ for another day. Regardless of how badly he feels, it's apocalypse now, and he can't take another day off.

He's huddled in the passenger seat of the Impala, drowning in his own sweat beneath the quilt they stole from the motel. Dean coughs and sneezes into a wet tissue. This would be about a thousand times better if his asthma wasn't flaring up as much as it has been the past few days. He can't get past the relentless pounding against his heart muscles or the wheezing so hard and so loudly that it hurts his throat. He barks once again, but this time into the collar of his jacket.

Sam worriedly glances over at his ill brother, biting his lower lip. Dean's eyes are bloodshot and glassy, and his hair is visibly damp with sweat. They're headed up to Bobby's, but, unfortunately, he doubts they'll make it there. He shouldn't have even agreed for Dean to get in the car in the first place with how much coughing he's doing. He needs actual rest, and that certainly isn't going to happen in the family car.

"We should stop," he offers, trying to be the bad guy here so Dean doesn't feel weak. He's forever and always proving to Sam by being an idiot that he's fine. He can't so much as stand up on his own, let alone walk to Bobby's front door without collapsing. Despite the fact that they were previously holed up in a motel for the last four days, it's painfully obvious by the blue tinged lips and terrifying cough that Dean needs to take it easy.

Dean shakes his head. "Gotta make it to Bobby's." His voice is raspy and all but gone. Dean rubs his throat with his fingers, and it looks like he's attempting to work out the knots that have taken place in there. He lays his head back against the seat and coughs a few more times, gripping at his chest. His vision is going entirely black when he feels the car shuddering to a sudden halt. Sam grabs the inhaler from his hand and forces it into his mouth, being his lungs for him.

He coughs and sputters. Dean frantically pushes open the door and basically rolls out in order to get on to his hands and knees to vomit. It's stringy and clear because he hasn't eaten in days. He gags and coughs some more, and then he sees little specks of red stuck in his puke. Shit. Dean feels Sam's hands on his shoulders, steadying him from falling face first into his mess and the gravel below. "Okay, that's it," he hears Sam say. "We're stopping for the night."

This time he nods in agreement. Sam exhales a brief sigh of relief when Dean doesn't fight him and hoists him back into the car. He brushes his hand over his forehead, soothing the fallen hairs back into their usual spikey place. Dean's burning up. He stares listlessly at Sam, and the younger Winchester wipes his mouth with one of their only remaining tissues. "Quit... staring, b-bitch," Dean stutters. Even his speaking sounds out of breath now.

Sam rolls his eyes and hops back into the driver's seat. He delicately drives, not wanting to hit any potholes, which have been known to make his coughs worse, and he definitely knows it can't feel good on his sore chest. He's pretty sure Dean has pneumonia, but he will do a clear and further assessment once they arrive at the motel. While he Google's a good place to stop, Dean falls fast asleep, snoring loudly and coughing in his slumber. Sam just gulps and keeps going.

* * *

They reach the motel, and Sam's first task is to carry his brother inside. He's trembling with fever, and there's sweat drenching every inch of him. He needs a shower, meds, and to sleep in a bed. This tiny motel received four out of five stars, comes with a makeshift kitchen, and claims to have no mold. If Dean does have pneumonia, which he's almost positive he does, then he needs a clean and warm room, not some place that's damp and cold.

He thanks the Internet when he notes that the room is spotless, smells like soap and lavender, and has beds that look actually inviting. Often times, Sam sleeps with his shoes and socks on because he's actually _nervous_ to rest in bug infestations or on moldy pillows. He gets his brother into the bathroom, strips him for the tenth time since he's gotten sick, and helps him in the shower, cranking the water nearly as hot as it will go. He winces when he hears Dean barks.

Sam grabs their bags from the Impala, sets out comfy pajamas for Dean to wear, and turns back the bed. He listens to his brother cough harshly while typing on his computer, impatiently waiting for him to emerge from the shower. He hears it being turned off and then his brother struggling into pants and a shirt. But the next sound is a hollow thud and a raspy gasp, and Sam hops up instantly, sprinting the short distance to the bathroom.

Dean is gripping at his chest and is on his knees on the tile floor, breathing all too heavily. His lips are tinged blue, and there's more blood coating the hand used to cover his mouth. Shit. "Dean!" he shouts, dropping down next to him with inhaler in hand. He places it in his mouth and pushes down on the canister. Typically, relief is almost immediate, but this time, no matter how many times he (safely) presses on it, Dean only gasps for breath louder.

Hospital time. He's had to do it before, and he's not overly surprised seeing how sick he is. Dean is still breathing, and, even though it's too heavy and forceful, he knows he has time to get his own shoes and jacket on before picking up his brother. He covers him with the quilt when he gets him into the car and watches him sit up in his seat to breathe in. Sam puts a hand on his back and rubs it lightly, noting how tense he is. Dean stares at him with wet, teary eyes.

"C-Can't... br-breathe..."

Sam nods, gulping and chewing his bottom lip at the rate his heart is beating rapidly. "I know, buddy. I'm gonna get you help."

And he presses hard on the gas and never looks back.

* * *

_Day One_

Sam is pacing back and forth in the waiting room, chewing mercilessly on his fingernails. They're nothing but bleeding nubs at this point, but his nerves won't cool down long enough for him to rationalize the importance of something so insignificant. His stomach is shuddering within the confounds of his body, and every fiber of him is shaking. Dean's really sick and needed immediate medical attention, but he didn't know he'd be waiting around for five hours.

People have been watching him practically march a hole through the floor. Not too long ago, a woman with an injured daughter handed him a cup of coffee and told him everything would be okay. She took him to sit next to her and yakked his ear off about how he should stop worrying so much and how long ERs tend to take, especially in Kansas. Sam rolls his eyes multiple times, but he will admit that his annoyance with the lady did waste about fifteen minutes. He quit panicking momentarily, but then she was called back to see her daughter, and he was alone again.

Since then, he's downed four cups of coffee, six cups of water, peed numerous times, and vomited just as many. He can't keep anything under control, and how can someone expect him to? No one will tell him what in the hell is going on in this damn hospital, and he really needs to see his brother. Dean collapsed entirely the second Sam brought him in here, no longer breathing and flat lining on a surgical table. Who can calm down with that being their last image?

He wonders if his brother is dead, and no one wants to tell him. Sam knows that thought is rash, but, hey, what else can he expect? Someone should have told him something, anything, by now, but a word hasn't left a single nurse or doctor's mouth. Dean should be okay. He's incredibly sick, but he's not sick enough to go dying on him. That would be too easy, he decides. When Dean dies, it's going to be in the line of battle, not in some "pansy" hospital.

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees the doctor that took his brother back to the ER five hours ago. "How is he?" he asks instantly, ignoring the stares from other people at his skittishness. He clenches his hands together to hide the blood seeping out of his fingernails and harshly bites the inside of his cheek instead. Sam has always been one of those people that just _has_ to know, especially when anything comes to his older brother.

"Your brother is suffering from double lung pneumonia and pneumothorax because of the illness. We put him on a ventilator, but he is unconscious."

Sam nods. "When will he wake up?"

"It's hard to tell. He's very ill, and his body has a lot of recovering to do. You can see him if you like."

He nods once again and follows behind the doctor to room 402. Dean has a private room while on a ventilator to ensure he isn't disturbed. Sam almost wishes he had an annoying asshole of a roommate to wake his butt up, but it'll be okay he thinks. Dean is stark white against the pillows, but there's a fine flush of red across his cheeks and bridge of his nose. His lips are no longer blue and bloody, and he looks like he's at least comfortable.

Sam sits down and grabs his brother's hand, praying for him to wake up soon.

* * *

_Day Two_

The nurse, Angie, gave him a cot to sleep on last night. He had flat out refused to leave his sick brother's side; he wanted to be the first person Dean saw once he woke up. Afterall, Dean has waited up for him for way more than a few days. When Sam got really sick when he was five, it was his nine year old brother who waited for him to feel better. John Winchester left a long time before, and Dean and Bobby were his only visitors, or so he's told.

Sam stretches awake on the cot, kneading out the kinks in his back with boney fingers. His stomach is growling, and he's in desperate need of a shower, but he can't leave Dean, not even for a second. See, with Winchester luck, the instant he left would be the moment Dean opened his eyes to find the room lifeless and without his brother. So, he vows to stay here, no matter how stinky and hungry and dirty and nasty he truly feels.

Dean is still fighting the pneumonia and collapsed lung. His fever has actually risen within the last few hours, and he's developed a bit of a rash on his chest and stomach, which the doctors can't identify just yet. He's hoping it's a side effect from all of the medication riddling his system; in fact, his best bet is on that. Sam still has a lot of faith that his brother will wake up soon and be in good shape, despite being on a ventilator.

He puts on his boots over the same pair of socks he wore yesterday, wincing at the uncomfortable muscle tension in his lower back. Great. He's twenty-six years old and already falling apart. He maneuvers himself from the cot to the green plastic chair his ass spent practically all of yesterday in, grabbing his brother's hand that isn't currently hooked up to an IV. Dean looks so... small and fragile and sick, three descriptors the conscious Dean would kill him for using.

"Hey, Deano," he whispers. "It's Sam. I... I just wanted you to know that I'm here, and I'm not leaving you."

* * *

_Day Three_

Sam is on his third cup of coffee for the morning and has effectively sink-showered for the second day in a row. He's changed from a flannel and jeans to a grey t-shirt and black sweatpants, especially since the jeans were starting to chafe him and were extremely close feeling for sitting all day long. He crosses his legs and gives his brother a quick once over. He bites his lower lip and sighs heavily. Why can't Dean just wake up already?

The younger Winchester opened the book he was working on, reading out loud to stimulate his brother's ill mind a bit.

"_Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes, he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes that I might have suspected of him being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his life forbidden such a notion."_

After reading the long paragraph out loud, he began to ponder about Dean. He closed the book momentarily and wondered truly if his brother could even hear him at all. He knows that many doctors believe comatose people can hear and understand. But the paragraph has him thinking of the blond Winchester in a different light. Living with Dean was habitual, and he was pretty freaking quiet. Whenever he had something to say, it was snarky and irritating, but, still, he was a man of very few words and little to no actual emotion.

When Sam caught his brother thinking to himself, it was like he was a new person. He wonders about Dean's hopes and dreams and what he would have done with his life had he not been shoved face-first into the family business. He figures a mechanic or something to do with cars, nothing to do with too much human interaction at all. In a few ways, Dean Winchester is more like Sherlock Holmes, and Sam is comparable to his sidekick John Watson.

Dean's heart monitor spikes audibly, and Sam jumps in his seat. He takes this cue to read more.

"_As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments."_

And Sam thinks of his brother, hands stained with oil, yet gentle when he's ill.

* * *

_September 15, 2009_

The brunette Winchester groans awake to the sound of his name being called. He creaks his eyes open to find Angie hovering over him.

"I thought you might like to see who's awake," she says, smiling happily.

Sam wipes the sleep from his eyes and hops off the cot. And his heart could break in excitedness and gladness. Dean's eyes are wide and a bit bloodshot, but he doesn't care. His brother is freaking okay, bad asthma attack, pneumonia, a collapsed lung, and all. Thank God. He exhales a massive sigh of relief and clasps his hand in Dean's, patting it softly with his other. "Hey, man," he whispers. "I missed your stupid face," he adds lightly.

Dean manages to roll his eyes.

"Alright. We're going to remove the tube from your throat now. I need you to breathe out when I tell you to." Dean nods. "Okay, now." And then the sweet sound of coughing fills the room. Sam can't help but smile. He would rather listen to Dean bitch and moan about there being nothing on TV or how cold Sam keeps the motel rooms than withstand anymore silence. He's practically driven himself insane with how little interaction he's had.

Immediately, Dean tries to talk, but he grips at his throat with tears swelling in the corners of his eyes.

"Don't try to talk, buddy," Sam says, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

He crosses his arms the best he can with the IVs and wires, glaring at him.

Sam doesn't care if he has to deal with a pissy brother; he's just happy he's okay.

* * *

_September 16, 2009_

Dean's going to be in the hospital for about another week while he recovers, and he's still extremely angry about not being able to talk. However, ice chips seem to solve the problem for now, considering how terribly sore his throat is. For now, they communicate by Dean scribbling down conversation topics with a Sharpie. So far, Sam's had a one-sided discussion on why Pluto should still be a planet. He watches Dean scrawl out something else on the notepad.

"_Can you keep reading?"_

Sam nods, but doesn't say anything else. He grabs the book from his backpack and flips open to his bookmark.

"_As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as it dashes backward and forward through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner." _

Sam peers up briefly to find his brother already fast asleep. He smiles and pulls the blankets up to his shoulders.

"Goodnight, big brother."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, lenail125! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	65. PurpleRings (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

Can I just say that I really don't understand the Cass versus Cas thing because it's clearly _Cas_? There aren't two "s's" in his name!

PurpleRings requested: "Can you please do a sick!Dean with a human!Cas taking care of him while Sam isn't there and can't come? And they maybe snuggle a little on the couch, or Dean has nightmares and Cas will watch over him until he falls asleep." I have been **craving** to write a fic just like this for a really long time now. Cas is too damn adorable, and I can't get over how cute I think it would be if this were to happen on the show. I mean, sick Dean would be a treat!

This is set before season nine starts. Completely AU.

* * *

PurpleRings (II)

* * *

_October 1, 2013_

Being human is still a concept Cas is struggling with. While he's been adjusting rather well to "dropping a deuce" and "cutting the cheese," he doesn't quite understand how to do laundry or eat meals at appropriate times. He doesn't enjoy dealing with fluctuating temperatures and doesn't know why humans change clothes so many times. He wore one outfit for five years straight, but his trench coat and suit has been replaced with hand-me-down jeans and t-shirts.

He misses his trench coat, which had many pockets for multiple items, typically hex bags and his trusty angel blade; Sam and Dean have since moved it to the weapon room. The clothes are baggy, and Dean says they will take him shopping for stuff he likes soon. He already discovered a sweater with a wolf on it online. He's always found wolves majestic, kind of like unicorns if they weren't such pompous pricks (Dean's phrasing, not his).

And then there's the whole idea of illnesses. Sam Winchester recently dropped off a sick Dean and told Cas to watch over him, which he's okay with. The older of the two has cared for him at his worst, so the very least he can do is assist him with whatever he needs. Currently, he's fast asleep, curled up in his bed and dead to the world, but Cas knows his job will begin later in the day when the sick man finally realizes his brother has left him here.

See, he's learned a thing or two about being around Dean Winchester. He hates the lack of independence injuries and illnesses causes him, but, when the moment is right, he will succumb to any kind of cuddling and coddling his younger brother will give him. It's a strange phenomena to watch Dean's walls crumble and break, and he's going to have to possess a lot of patience in order to deal with the crankiness he's sure is going to follow.

Cas pads down the hallway in his socks, trying his best to keep his footing despite the lack of shoes. He isn't entirely comfortable with how loose the jeans on his waist are, and his t-shirt practically swallows him whole, which is why he's thinking it's Sam's. The younger Winchester has a good five inches on him and even towers above his older brother, which Cas has always found strange but has never said anything. He thought big brothers were supposed to be _big._

It's time to check on Dean and give him some much needed medicine. He's suffering from a great deal of congestion, his chronic lung condition requires that he uses his inhaler more frequently, and his body temperature is way higher than it should be. Sam had dragged him in and helped him into bed, and, for once, he watched as Dean didn't fight. The only struggle he saw was Dean not wanting his little brother to leave, as always.

Dean is propped up on three memory foam pillows, his head hanging to the side and mouth wide open, snoring loudly through the blockages in his nose and ears. The comforter has been pulled up to his shoulders, probably Sam's doing, and Cas can't recall a time he's ever seen him sleep like that. He's been a belly sleeper since he was a year old and typically sleeps on his side only when he's ill, but never on his back. He must really not be feeling well.

The new human shakes the hunter's shoulder carefully, not wanting to disturb him, but he has to. Dean needs medicine, otherwise he will feel worse when he wakes up. The blond's eyes creak open slowly and then flutter once he wakes up a bit more. "Time's it?" he asks with a scratchy voice. He begins to push himself into a sitting position, dragging his blankets along with him. Cas winces when he shivers visibly, his teeth beginning to clatter together.

"A little past six. Are you hungry?"

Dean shakes his head. "N'thanks."

Cas figures he wouldn't be, so he grabs the thermometer instead. Dean hesitates and glares at him at first, but he looks so exhausted, so he places it beneath his armpit himself. This is another thing about being human. Cas used to be able to see when either of the boys were under the weather and could visualize their symptoms, but he lacks that ability. Now, he has to check his temperature with a stick one places under their arm that blinks out numbers.

"103," Dean informs, his eyes already drooping closed. "Let's get this over with."

The brunette nods, removing the thermometer from Dean's hands and grabbing the medicine Sam left on the nightstand. The older Winchester swallows them without a fight. "That's it?" Cas asks tentatively, noticing how he's not throwing a fit at all. Usually, he complains to Sam left and right about how he's not a kid anymore or about how he doesn't need any medicine or help. This time, he doesn't do or say anything, and it's not settling well with Cas.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Uh, yeah. Why? Do you want there to be more?"

Cas shakes his head. "No. It's just strange."

"Maybe I'm more adjusted."

He doesn't say anything to that. "Do you need anything else?"

"Nah. Thanks though."

With that, the older Winchester clicks off the lamp beside his bed and lowers himself back on to the mound of pillows. He starts snoring once again before Cas turns back around to leave the room, completely unsure of how to handle this situation. He's used to hearing or watching the seemingly meltdown of Dean Winchester, and he's never once seen him give in this easily. He really doesn't understand what's going on here at all.

Being a human really is hard.

* * *

_October 2, 2013_

"SAM!"

The sudden shout shakes Cas awake, who had fallen deeply asleep in his room across the hall from Dean's. He instantly jumps up and sprints across the hall, nearly slipping on his black socks with every frantic step. It feels like it takes a lifetime to reach his bedroom, and, when he finally does, he sees his best friend screaming in pain and terror, writhing in agony in his bed. He's sweating and breathing heavily enough to actually scare Cas.

He begins to rapidly shake the man's shoulders. He feels the dampness of his shirt through his touch and realizes how hard his heart is pounding. "Dean!" he yells. "Wake up!" Dean suddenly stops thrashing and screaming his brother's name, blinking open his eyes in the darkness. Cas turns on the light. "Are you okay?" he asks quietly. He's had a handful of nightmares since he's been human, and they are easily one of the worst things about his transformation.

Tears leak out of his eyes and stain an old shirt that once belonged to his brother. "Sammy," he murmurs. "Where's Sammy?"

"Your brother is on a hunt. He should be back in a few days."

And this statement causes the blond's chest to being rattling with coughs and for the whole world to seemingly catch on fire. Cas helps the young man sit up and collapse into his open arms, and it's yet another thing that frightens the ex-angel immensely. Dean has hugged him before, sure, but never like this. Never in this scenario. And never exactly willingly. But, he holds on tightly and whispers that he won't leave him because it's true.

"Sam..." he lets escape once more before entirely passes out once again, buried deeply within his friend's arms. Cas just rubs his back, slowly letting him back down into bed so he can get some actual rest. Dean curls on to his side, and Cas wipes his nose as snot begins to drip out of it. He pulls up Dean's desk chair and sits down carefully as to not wake the hunter up. He'll sit here all night if it will mean his best friend will feel better.

* * *

Dean is lounging in the recliner in the living room when Cas sits down on the couch. The blond seems entirely exhausted, but he's spent most of the early afternoon researching and reading, despite the fact that he's clearly miserable. He guesses now is the time when the pushing and shoving comes into play because he won't listen to a single suggestion Cas has. He folds his arms across his chest, watching his friend squint at the book he's reading.

"Would you like your glasses?" he asks, almost a bit too quietly.

His voice must have shaken him out of his reading trance. "Nope. I'm good."

"But how can you see that?"

Dean shrugs. "Get used to it."

"That has to hurt. There's a reason why you have glasses, you know."

Another shrug. Dean ignores Cas and goes back to reading. The ex-angel sighs and gets up from his now warm spot on the couch to retrieve the young hunter's spectacles. Once he returns from his bedroom, he unfolds them and promptly places them on Dean's face, even pushing them up to the bridge of his nose. The blond shakes his head and chuckles slightly. "Is this your way of trying to get my attention?" he asks in a super nasally voice.

Cas doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. He checks his wristwatch to discover that it's only three, and there's about another two hours before Dean gets his next dose of medicine. He's starting to get bored, especially with his friend not exactly being in a chatty mood. He was expected there to be much more to do since he's seen Sam basically break his neck in order to make sure Dean gets better, but he isn't even acting all that sick.

Maybe he's just embarrassed about last night.

"Want to watch a movie?" Cas asks.

Dean exhales loudly, but doesn't look up from his book. "Sure. Whatever."

The ex-angel runs a hand through his hair. "Never mind. I'll leave you alone so you can read."

He doesn't receive a response; Cas couldn't feel anymore useless.

* * *

It's a few hours later when the new human returns from his catnap in his bedroom. He stretches awake and yawns loudly, massaging his empty stomach with his fingertips. When Cas enters the living room area on his hunt for food, he expects to find Dean still reading his book, but he's nowhere to be found. "Hmm..." he says out loud. He heads to Dean's bedroom, thinking perhaps he's asleep, but he isn't in bed either. And then he hears it.

The sound is extremely distinguishable: retching. Cas steps over the clothes and blankets covering the hardwood floor to the bathroom and finds his friend curled up around the toilet, sobbing and breathing too heavily once again. Without any hesitation, he drops to his knees and rubs the hunter's trembling back, noting that his fever is up, and he's perspirating quite a bit. Oh crap. He isn't sure how he's supposed to deal with this either.

"Shh, Dean. It will be okay," he coaxes. He's heard Sam say that many times when Dean's sick, and he figures the words would be comforting. He carefully rubs his back and smiles briefly when he feels him relax against his chest once he's done vomiting. His white t-shirt is stained orange and pink, but Cas will change that later. First, he must sooth his friend's crying, which sounds as though it's only just starting as opposed to stopping.

He maneuvers Dean to where he's sobbing openly into his green t-shirt. Cas hugs him and lets him know that everything will be okay, despite Dean feeling like everything is falling apart. He's a quivering mess and blowing snot bubbles into his shirt, but it doesn't matter to Cas. He wishes for nothing more than his best friend to feel better, and he's going to try his best to make sure the fever stops climbing and the medicine begins to work.

Dean soon cries himself to sleep, but Cas doesn't let go.

* * *

_October 3, 2013_

This time, Cas finds Dean snuggled beneath the plaid electric blanket, silently watching TV. He isn't paying a lick of attention to the show on the screen, as he is fiddling with tissues to expel the snot from his clogged nose. He still gives off the vibe that he's miserable, but, after last night, Cas doubts he will acknowledge anything. And the new human is okay with that, though, because he just knows that is how Dean Winchester operates.

Cas pads over to Dean, glancing down at him with his hands in his jeans pockets. "Do you need anything?"

Dean looks up, his eyes bloodshot and glassy; all he does is shake his head.

"Are you sure?"

He receives another nod, despite feeling some other emotion coming off in waves. Cas doesn't understand those kinds of in-depth ones yet since he's particularly estranged to comprehending humans in general. When he turns around to leave, a clammy hand grasps his own, and Dean is staring at him with an almost pleading look. It takes a minute for it to click, but he's seen Sam do it a thousand times for Dean, possibly more.

Cas motions for the blond to scoot over on the couch, and he obliges. He lets Dean wrap around him, snuggling into his chest for comfort. The young man is burning up beneath the quilt, but, for the first time in days, Cas is comfortable and happy, and he, judging from the immediate relaxation and snores, guesses Dean is too. The ex-angel lets out of a sigh of relief and pulls the blanket up higher, but not before taking one last look at the sleeping hunter.

Maybe being human isn't so hard afterall.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, PurpleRings! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	66. Em (IV)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

What did you guys think of last night's episode?

Em requested: "I would love a season 4 Dean fic! I know it's been done before, but what about something where Dean's immune system is screwed after Hell, and he keeps getting colds and flus and like the measles or whatever? Or maybe just something where he is super stressed after Hell, so he gets worn down and just keeps getting sick because of that." I have actually wanted to write a fic about Dean continuously getting sick after Hell, so this is right up my alley.

* * *

Em (IV)

* * *

_January 26, 2009_

"Are you planning on getting up some time today?" Sam asks, shaking his brother's shoulder a bit feistily, eager to get back on the road. He isn't a big fan of lying around in shitty motel rooms, despite the fact that they're both exhausted. They got back from a hunt early last night, so he figures Dean would have been up and raring to go hours ago. But, he decided to let his brother sleep, especially since his four hours every two days thing is getting kind of old.

Dean is burrowed deeply within his comforter, snoring quietly and face smashed into his pillow. His dark blond hair is flat against his forehead. Sam almost feels bad for waking him up, but it's past one in the afternoon, and they're supposed to head to Bobby's tonight. They should have been on the road hours ago. Sam grabs a pillow off of his bed and hits Dean in the back of the head with it, hoping that will cause his ass to regain consciousness.

"What?" he spits angrily, rolling over to face Sam. His eyes are swollen and feel too big for the sockets, so he rubs them with his knuckles. Dean yawns and stretches, but makes zero effort to actually get out of bed. His muscles are desperately sore, and his head is pounding viciously into his skull. Sam sits down on the edge of his bed, so he moves his legs to make room. His entire body is nothing but knots of pain, and he really needs to take a leak, but he can't.

Sam puts a comforting hand on his blanketed stomach. Dean winces and recoils from the touch. He feels like he's trapped here, and there's nothing he can do about it. He wishes for nothing more than pain meds and sleep, but he's not so sure his brother will be the same way. There are dark bags beneath his little sibling's eyes, and his hair is standing up in multiple directions, despite wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt. Maybe a day in will do them both some good.

The younger Winchester hesitantly reaches his hand to place on Dean's forehead and is utterly shocked when he doesn't so much as swat him away. Wow. He must be under the weather then. The instant Dean glanced at him moments ago, he knew something was wrong. The blond doesn't normally sleep this late, long, or hard, but it makes a bit more sense when he comes into contact with his overly warm, slightly sweaty brow. "How're you feeling?"

Dean shrugs, his throat too sore to mess with either. He's been a little off since two days ago, just a headache and unnecessarily achy joints and ligaments, but he's sure last night was his breaking point. It was snowing, and no amount of extra layers could shake the chill that had permanently penetrated his bones. "Tired" is all he manages to squeak out, his voice suddenly two octaves lower than usual. He just wants to go back to bed without another word or inquiry.

Sam gets up from his position on the bed and pads over to his duffel bag where the first aid kit is placed. He pulls out a handy bottle of NyQuil and a bottle of Tylenol, shoveling out three pills into his cupped hand. He grabs a cup of water and has his brother take the medicine, cringing in sympathy once he sees how exhausted and sick he really is. It's extremely rare for Dean to cave like this, so Sam knows that, without a doubt, this is going to get worse before it gets better.

Dean is struggling to fall asleep, his eyes fluttering open and closed every few seconds, his pulse drumming into his head. He fitfully rolls back on to his stomach despite the body aches and tries to get comfortable on the pillows. He's so tired, but, now that he's awake, he feels kind of strange. Before he has a chance to say anything, he feels hands on his covered back, massaging and soothing his sore muscles. "Damn you..." he mutters. "F'ls nice..."

The younger Winchester's only response is a small chuckle.

* * *

_January 30, 2009_

It takes three and a half days before Dean willingly gets out of bed. During this time, Sam practically has to rock him against his chest back asleep since his frantic mind is too riddled with nightmares of Hell to actually sleep well. His fever is entirely gone, and he's actually chosen to shave today. Sam watches as his brother stiffly shrugs on a grey and yellow flannel over his thermal undershirt, wincing at the movements coursing through his aching body.

Dean sniffles audibly, and Sam doesn't think anything of it. Sure, a runny nose hasn't been an issue for the past few days, but it could very well be from the shower water or leaning over to tie his boots only moments ago. He carries their bags out to the Impala, shivering wildly at the frigid late January weather. Mother Nature decided to drop nearly six inches of snow on the ground last night, but that isn't going to stop Sam, who is stir crazy, from getting on the road.

When Sam re-enters the motel room, Dean is sitting on his newly made bed, head in hands and sniffling harshly. A deep cough erupts from seemingly the pit of his chest, and he's wheezing loudly. Shit. Maybe they aren't out of the woods. Or it could just be a side effect. He's not exactly sure just yet. "Do you want to hang out here for a few more days?" he asks, figuring, with how the rate he said yes last time, that he would agree again,

He raises his eyebrows when Dean shakes his head. "N'way. Just my asthma."

Sam nods and doesn't say anything else. They make their way out to the car, and Dean beats him to the passenger seat before he can protest. He glares at him, and his brother only responds with a shrug. The Winchesters pile in the Impala for the millionth time in their lives, but only a handful of those occasions have ended with Sam driving. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asks, careful not to poke the bear too much. There has to be a reason he doesn't want to drive.

Dean nods. "Yep. Just drive, bitch."

* * *

It's a few hours later when Dean's sniffling spirals out of control, and he's left wheezing into a crumpled wad of tissues piled beneath his chapped nose. Sam cringes in disgust and worry when Dean doubles over and coughs wetly. Wow, he must really not be over this one, despite it being four days since he got sick in the first place. Sam decides that it's probably the flu and that they moved too soon, which, undoubtedly, made Dean's illness worse.

"We'll pull over soon, Deano," he whispers, rubbing his brother's trembling back with one hand while he steers the car with the other.

Dean nods and leans back in his seat, head lolling over to meet the passenger window. The cool brush of the air outside comforts him minorly, but it doesn't make the consistent, sharp pain shredding through his chest go away. He coughs harshly once again and grips at his coat, as if removing it will help him feel better. "S-Sam," he mumbles, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I... I really d-don't f-feel good..." Hopefully, his brother won't think he's too big of a wimp.

"I know. I'm driving as fast as I can."

He receives another nod, and Sam looks over briefly at his brother. He bites his lower lip when he sees the fiercely flushed cheeks and the sweaty brow. Dean's really got something going on here, and there's no way they are risking heading to Bobby's house again when he's this bad. Thankfully for both of them, there's a sign of a hotel a few miles away, but there are no motels in sight. They will just have to shell out the extra cash. Plus, a hotel will be much nicer to recuperate in. God knows Dean's going to need all the help he can to kick this thing.

Once they arrive, Sam bundles his brother up as much as he can and helps him inside and toward the check out; he'll come back and get their bags later. Dean hunches over and pillows his head in his folded arms while Sam fills out the paperwork, listlessly swaying left and right. The younger Winchester smiles and nods at the bystanders, who are glancing at them both like they're nuts. Their room is on the third floor, and he prays the elevator in this joint works.

Aha, success. He wraps an innocent arm around his brother and basically tucks him against his chest, keeping him from face planting in front of the other five people in the elevator with them. Once again, stares flood their way, and Sam can't do anything but sheepishly smile. Dean is half-asleep with a snot trail trickling out of his nose, and he's sweating up a storm. The brunette can feel his immense fever heat through his thick winter coat.

Luckily, they make it to their room without a hitch, and, thankfully, it's freaking wonderful. The bathroom is huge, the beds are both kings so there's plenty of room for Dean to "reluctantly" cuddle with him, and the TV is enormous and comes with more than ten working channels, which could provide his brother with endless entertainment while recovering from his illness. Sam feeds him more medicine, strips him into boxers and a long sleeved shirt, turns on the TV, and smiles slightly when Dean cuddles into the pillow, still breathing heavily but overall more relaxed.

* * *

_February 4, 2009_

Dean is huddled up in the fancy ass hotel room for five days. During this time, his congestion was wicked and relentless, and they ran out of tissues so rapidly that Sam was embarrassed to ask the front desk for more. He ends up giving Dean one of his old t-shirts, and he literally uses the entire available surface to wipe his nose; Sam found him cuddled up with it in the middle of the night, it was soaking wet, and he nearly threw up in response.

Today, he can tell his chest is tight because he's wheezing slightly, and the runny nose is still there. He's no longer running a fever, isn't sweating, and doesn't seem to have a headache. He dresses himself with no issues and shaves cleanly with no assistance. Sam is grateful he's feeling better because he was really beginning to panic quite a bit. Dean, for a while there, just wasn't responding to any form of medication that he gave him.

"Ready to hit the road?" Dean asks him, his voice raspy and hoarse. He puts on his glasses and sits on his bed to tie his boots. He's ready to get the hell out of here. Even though it was extremely awesome to have such a variety in TV channels, he's more than willing to go slay some monster ass right now. There's only so long one can keep a Winchester down. He feels immensely better today minus the slight congestion and pressure in his chest.

Sam nods, closing the laptop. "Let's get the hell out of here."

And then they're off.

* * *

_February 9, 2009_

Dean's trying to figure this out. The ache near his belly button and right side is persistent, and he can't quite understand why. He hasn't broken any ribs and doesn't have a single bruise on his torso period, which is incredibly rare for him. It recently shifted from his naval to his lower abdomen, and he can't help but squirm in the driver's seat of his baby. He presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and pinches it tightly. Fantastic.

He doesn't even want to admit to Sam that he isn't feeling all that hot. Hell, he's still a little congested from getting over a bad flu (or rather two bad flus) a few days ago. His stupid chest hasn't recovered that well, and he's so sick of being sick. Before he knows it, Sam is going to think he's the biggest baby in history, and he's never going to let him live it down. The last thing he needs or wants is for his little brother to blackmail him to death.

Thankfully for him, it's past midnight, Sam is fast asleep, and they're coming up on a motel. He peels into the parking lot and goes to check in, smiling when he sees that his brother hasn't stirred once in hours. Walking hurts like a bitch, and every movement he makes ends with him wanting to curl in on himself. He gets their room keys, lets Sam use him as a crutch since he's practically asleep on his feet, and changes his huge baby brother into sweatpants and a t-shirt, removing his coat, beanie, boots, and socks. He covers him up and soothes his hair back from his face.

With Sam taken care of and out for the night, Dean grabs their bags and lightheadedly changes into plaid pajama pants and one of Sam's hoodies, noting that the warm fabric feels amazing against his cold body. He sits down on the covered toilet seat, sticks a thermometer in his armpit, and puts his head in his hands. Dean's body is quivering with exhaustion, and he can already tell he's running another fever. 102.2. Great. Friggin' wonderful.

He leaves the bathroom and carefully sets himself in the bed, not bothering with blankets. His eyes are half-mast before his head even touches the pillow. He removes his glasses and tries to roll on to his right side, but that mistake is so painful that he nearly barfs all over the place. Dean whimpers and curls into a tight ball on his left side, wrapping his arms around his middle section. Jesus, he's such a wimp. Hopefully Sam won't ever see the tears streaming down his cheeks.

* * *

Sam stretches awake and doesn't even bother with yawning. He can tell it's just going to be one of those great days where he's full of energy for no apparent reason. He immediately hops out of bed, not exactly remembering how he ended up beneath the covers and in his pajamas, but he knows it was his brother's doing. Speaking of Dean, he needs to be woken up. He's got the jitters, and he's really craving pancakes and orange juice right about now.

Dean is hugging his knees to his chest and didn't even get under the blankets last night. Sam is about to shake his shoulder when he takes stock of what's in front of him. He can feel the waves of heat radiating off of him from here, and he's visibly shaking way too hard. _Are you shitting me? How could he possibly be sick again?_ He can't be too irritated, though, because the panic instantly settles in, and he needs to help him as soon as possible.

"Buddy," he whispers, lightly rubbing his back. _Jeez, he's burning up._

The older Winchester blinks open his eyes, but even that hurts. He shrugs Sam's hand off of him and tries to sit up to see if that alleviates the pain at all, but everything makes it worse. A bile rises quickly in the back of his throat, and, before he's fully aware of what's happening, a sea of yellow vomit has erupted all over the motel room floor. At least he missed himself and Sam this time. He grips on to his stomach as hard as he can and wishes for the pain to go away.

Sam wipes his mouth and rubs his back, despite Dean trying to shake him off. "Where does it hurt specifically?"

Dean points a shaky finger to his lower right abdominal area.

Fuck.

_Appendicitis? How in the hell is that even possible?_

There are no other illnesses in the book that he can think of that present with these symptoms, and there's a major red flag with where the pain is located. Sam used to read and memorize medical textbooks, and he's positive this is the only option. But he doesn't understand; Dean had his appendix removed when he was thirteen. He only has one appendix. What exactly is going on here? How does one have two appendices?

"Hur's, S'mmy," he mumbles, tugging harder at his middle section.

Sam has no choice. Appendicitis or not, he needs a hospital now.

* * *

When Dean was brought back from Hell, apparently so was his appendix, which was minutes away from rupturing when Sam got him to the ER. It doesn't make a damn lick of sense, but neither does their entire lives, so he can't say too much else. He's just happy Dean is resting comfortably and no longer in a crazy amount of pain. This bought of appendicitis was way worse than the original case he had when he was a teenager.

"St'p lookin' at me," Dean says, trying to hide the exhaustion in his voice. His side still aches, but it is so much better. It's more of a slight pressure being on there instead of the constant white hot pain that riddled his entire system about twelve hours ago. He's ready to get out of the hospital now though; he hates this damn place. And, sense he does feel mostly good now, he's wanting to walk, run, and hunt faster than he should probably want to at this point.

The younger Winchester rolls his eyes. "Nothing to look at."

"Haha. Cute."

Sam takes a seat next to his bedside. Dean's color has mostly returned, he's fever free, and he already seems to be in good spirits about this whole thing. He doesn't understand why his appendix came back, but he doesn't seem to care. Maybe Cas is the reason for it, but he'll most likely never know for sure. Currently, Sam's just content knowing his brother is okay, even if he's sure to go stir crazy in only a matter of hours.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring any pie?"

* * *

_February 15, 2009_

They're driving through a tiny, practically non-existent town when a wet, hacking cough erupts from Dean's throat. Sam could stop the car in the light traffic behind him with how hard he's glaring. Because of his recent surgery, he can't drive, and it's really irritating. But it's not as annoying as that God forsaken sound that comes out of him. "Are you seriously getting sick again?" he asks. But, in reality, he could never be too mad.

Dean shrugs and smiles sheepishly. "Dunno. Let's go find one of those nice ass hotels again though if I am."

Sam laughs and shakes his head. Well, if it happening, at least it won't be his appendix this time.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Em! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	67. JTRN08

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you very much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

JTRN08 requested: "Can you write me one set in season 9 after Sam said he wouldn't save Dean, where Dean has a mild flu, so Sam leaves him behind at the bunker only to return to find a critically ill Dean?" Poor Dean! I'm starting to feel bad for writing so many of these, but, at the same time, it actually is fun finding new and inventive ways to say what I want to say without being ridiculously repetitive. I love this prompt too!

Set after 9x13 "The Purge."

* * *

JTRN08

* * *

_February 6, 2014_

Two days after Sam announces he is done with Dean, the older Winchester shuffles through the endless bunker hall on a search for water. He's listless and swaying, wearing nothing more than sweats and a grey long sleeved shirt. His bare feet pad across the cold concrete, and he tries not to worry about how badly his entire body is protesting with each movement. But, better yet, he's attempting to leave his room for the first time in two days with Sam noticing.

He approaches the refrigerator, opening it as softly as possible. One out of place sound could jar his brother awake and make him come face to face with him. Dean doesn't want that to happen; in fact, his heart is pounding so wildly in his chest that he's sure he's going to pass out. He grabs five water bottles and shovels them into his arms. He coughs wetly into his shoulder while walking back down the hallway to his room. Thankfully, there's no sign of Sam.

Dean puts four bottles in his mini fridge beside his nightstand and holds the other on his chest as he lies back down in bed, pulling the electric blanket over his aching muscles. He doesn't bother with the TV or turning off his bedside lamp; his only thoughts are of his brother and how badly he wishes he felt different. Maybe he should have let Sam die. No, it's not because he's actually fond of the idea, but it's more about how Sam feels about what he did.

He let an angel possess Sam to save his battered and broken body. Dean sniffles, coughs into his cupped hand, and tries his best to minimalize how terribly his entire core is shaking. His stomach is queasy with inquiries about his brother, but how was he supposed to just let go? Sam made it sound so easy, like he was worth nothing to him. Dean's spent his entire life looking out for his pain in the ass baby brother, and Sam thinks he can throw him away without another word.

But, he knows his actions hurt his brother. And he would do and give anything to make it all better. He used to kiss Sammy's, when was still _just Sammy,_ scratches and cuts, rubbing antibacterial cream on the abrasions and slathering dinosaur Band-Aids over them. This isn't something he can patch up because he knows Sam wants absolutely nothing to do with him, especially since he's been avoiding him like the plague.

In the end, he guesses he gets it, and, despite anything he is actually feeling, he wants to make it up to Sam. He will have to give it a bit and bend to what he wants to do, but some interaction is good, rather than none at all. Tears begin to swell in the corners of his eyes, and his chest seizes; he wonders if Sam even loves him anymore. Dean gave up everything he could in order to save his brother, but he knows, deep down, that irrevocable damage has been done.

* * *

Sam stands outside his brother's room, pondering about what he's supposed to do. He found a hunt, but he certainly doesn't want Dean going with him. Not right now. The wounds are still far too fresh and wide open, for what it seems like, the entire world to glare at. He is completely frozen and just listens for signs of life, something that shows him his brother is alive and kicking. No TV. No music. No snoring. No footsteps. Maybe Dean's asleep?

Truth be told, he doesn't even want to see his brother. But, at the same time, he knows he has to because he's not leaving here for potentially a week without letting him know where he's going. After all of the coughing, sniffling, and sneezing he's been hearing coming from his bedroom, he knows he's sick, and even Sam doesn't have the heart to ignore saying goodbye. He tries to turn the knob, but he can't. He's not sure they'll ever get past this.

Sam shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs heavily, practically stomping toward their dinning and main research table. He can't do it. He has no urge to look his brother in the eye, despite the fact that he is ill. Dean saved him again, even when he didn't want to be saved. The constant violation of his rights as a human is getting extremely old and frustrating, and Dean doesn't seem to get that or care. Sam has no energy left to fight him.

After their conversation in the kitchen two days ago, he saw the look on Dean's face before he went to bed. What he said had literally shattered him, but he still can't bring himself to care. It's about time he got a somewhat taste of his own medicine. He's not fucking five years old anymore and can make decisions alone. If he wants to die and have it all be over with, that's his right. He understands that Dean is his brother and only family, but he doesn't want this anymore.

Sometimes, Sam dreams of Stanford and Jess, even after all these years. If he had just told his brother to get the hell out of his apartment and leave him alone, he's sure Dean would have done so. It would have hurt like a son of a bitch, but at least it would have been over. Maybe Jess wouldn't have died. Maybe this could have been avoided. Maybe _this_ wouldn't have to be his life. Sam swallows a heavy lump in his throat and bites his lip in order to wash away the tears.

He grabs a piece of notebook paper and scribbles out a note for his brother.

_On a hunt. Be back by next Thurs. – S_

Part of him wants to leave a bottle of NyQuil, some ibuprofen, tissues, a thermometer, and the humidifier out for him. Part of him wants to escape from this damn place and never look back. But Sam Winchester isn't who he used to be. He knows there's no escaping, and there has never been a _normal._ He will always be a _freak_. But he doesn't have to be a freak with his brother around, at least for another week. He decides against the medicine.

Dean is a big boy, afterall.

* * *

It's a few hours later when Dean blinks awake, wincing when he feels just how sore his throat has gotten in a short period of time. He tries to swallow, but it doesn't end well. It feels like there are razor blades taking residence in his esophagus. Dean trembles violently as he pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard and breathing heavily. He grabs his inhaler and presses down on the canister, but barely any relief is provided.

Every muscle in his body is aching, and he can't seem to stop coughing no matter how hard he tries. He wishes Sam would take care of him like normally would, but there's no way either of them will let that happen. Instead, Dean somehow gets out of bed, putting on his leather jacket and a pair of wool socks before sliding down the hallway, his arms wrapped around himself. He clenches his teeth, and everything around him is wavy and blurry.

He doesn't stop by Sam's room; he just makes his way into the main portion of the large bunker. Dean approaches a single piece of notebook paper on the dinning table and instantly crumbles it up once he reads it. Great. So Sam did leave. He figures it would have actually been sooner, but his heart still hurt regardless. That's it. Now Dean knows for sure that Sam literally can't stand to have him around anymore. Maybe he won't even be back in a week.

Tears spill over his cheeks, and he does nothing to wipe them away. Instead, he sits down at the table with the note clutched in his hand, contemplating what he's going to do without Sam. He doubts he will be back. He honestly does. Sam has been known to cut and run numerous times before, and Dean definitely isn't pulling him back in this time. He's learned his lesson from saving his brother, and, despite what he's feeling, he will never do that again.

* * *

_February 8, 2014 _

Sam and Dean used to watch Saturday morning cartoons when they were kids. An eight year old version of his little brother would crawl in between his legs and lay his head on his chest, holding his hand while they witnessed multiple episodes of _Power Rangers._ Dean didn't know how much he would miss his baby brother until he was fully-grown and able to take care of himself. He didn't think into the future and how about, one day, Sam wouldn't want to be brothers anymore.

The blond Winchester is currently tucked into a tight ball on the leather couch, quivering and coughing relentlessly, even though he's wearing multiple layers, just took more medicine than he should have, and is covered up with the electric blanket. He even found that fucking humidifier and plugged it in. At this point, he will do just about anything to relieve the congestion and coughing. He can't remember a time in the recent years that he's felt this terribly.

He hasn't eaten a drop since four days ago when Sam told him to basically go screw himself. Dean is at the point where he can't help but be bitter. Like he said earlier, he would do anything to make all of this go away, but it's too late, and, at the moment, he doesn't feel like Sam was being fair in the first place. Sure, he did something wrong and that clearly really hurt his brother, but Sam doesn't understand what it's like to be in his shoes.

Dean was four years old when their mother died, and Sam was only six months. Dad used to leave him for days on end with no food, no money, and no diapers. He had to sing Sam to sleep, hold him and burp him when he could barely lift him in the first place, and teach him everything he knew. He used to talk to baby Sam for hours on end about everything and nothing. He had responsibilities that most can't even imagine, and he was only four.

Growing up, he gave up his clothes and food so Sam could eat and not be a naked rugrat, even though he drowned in everything he owned. He wouldn't sleep without salting every crack and crumble, locking everything in the shitty apartments or motels, and checking to see if his brother was breathing every few minutes. Sam would wake up in the middle of the night crying for Dad, but Dean was the one who had to reassure him and make it all better.

No one has ever done that for him. Yes, Sam has taken care of him when he doesn't feel well or is exhausted before, but he'll never experience what he did. Compared to him, Sam had it easy. In the end, they both grew up hunters, but it doesn't matter. So what if Dean wanted to save Sam for himself? Sam is _all _he's _ever had._ He barely had a fucking bed to sleep in growing up (if he slept at all), and Sam doesn't get that. Sam will never understand.

Dean grabs the trashcan he placed on the floor beside him and promptly expels the contents of his more than empty stomach into the plastic bag lined can. When he looks down, he nearly tosses his cookies again. Blood. Shit. His heart pounds into his chest, and his mind is spinning. Puking up blood is never a good sign, whether one is a Winchester or not. For a split second, he contemplates calling Sam or 911, but he doesn't.

Instead, Dean wraps the blanket around himself and snuggles into a pillow that somehow still smells like his brother.

* * *

_February 11, 2014_

Dean can't move. He's stuck on the couch in a body that doesn't move anymore. His entire being is shattered and so sick that breathing alone hurts. He doesn't have energy to cough, and, yet, he can't fucking stop. Blood pours down his chin and dribbles on to his leather jacket he's been wearing for nearly a week. He doesn't have anymore tissues, and he clearly can't stand up to get them. His mind is spinning rapidly. Should he call Sam?

Even if he decided yes, there are two things getting in his way. The first is that he doesn't have his phone on him and can't do anything about that. The second is that he can picture and imagine Sam seeing his name across the screen of his phone and ignoring it, going back to driving or killing or whatever it is he's doing. But Dean's scared. Like actually scared. With how he's been feeling for the past few days, there's no way any of this is good.

He coughs into the open air and somehow manages to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. There's blood coating pretty much the entire surface, and he forces out a shaky sigh, only to bark more. His cough is harsh and wet and completely horrifying sounding, even to his own trained ears. But, he doesn't have any strength whatsoever to move or grab the thermometer or call a damn ambulance. More tears stream down his flushed cheeks.

Sam.

* * *

_February 12, 2014_

The younger Winchester peels into the motel parking lot. He wipes the blood from his face and limps inside to check in for the night. He's supposed to be back the bunker tomorrow, but he has to rest and stitch himself up now. Sam manages to get in the room without a hitch, exhaling in relief once he sees a bed that's practically chanting and calling his name. His ankle is wrenched, and he is in desperate need of a shower and some pain medication.

Sam finally feels like he can breathe for once in this past hellish week as he leans back against the shower wall, letting the pleasantly warm water wash his battered and bruised body. Once he gets out, he dresses warmly in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a hoodie. He towel dries his hair and doesn't care how messy it looks because he can just deal with that in the morning. He's not that far away from Lebanon, so he should still arrive early enough to see how Dean is doing.

He is more or less looking to see if his brother is still there. By that, he guesses he means alive. He knows Dean was way more than simply under the weather when he left, but he was too angry to sit around and watch. However, he's in a bit better of a mood, despite being injured and dead tired, and he's willing to go back to coddle him minorly, even if means only giving him medicine and tossing him back into bed; that's all he will probably need anyway.

Sam wraps his ankle tightly and clicks off the bedside lamp, cuddling into the fluffy pillows.

He doesn't know that, just three hours away, his brother is struggling to breathe.

* * *

_February 13, 2014_

Sam arrives back at the bunker around half past two in the afternoon. He puts the Impala in park and climbs out, wincing with each step he takes inside. Despite having slept well the night before after the scramble with two werewolves, he is already looking to turn in for the day and stay off his ankle for a few more. Their new home is eerily quiet when he enters, and he half-expects Dean to be cooking or drinking or doing whatever it is he does, but there's not a peep.

Until he hears the cough that has grown a thousand times louder and heavier since he's been gone. His spidey senses kick into overdrive, and he hobbles down the hall with his mind whirling around. Shit. Son of a bitch. Sam nearly vomits once he approaches the couch he can see his brother is lying on. The aroma of blood and piss immediately fills his nostrils, and tears actually swell in his eyes once he gets a decent enough look at Dean.

The sight is heartbreaking and heart wrenching. His brother's hair is standing up in every direction, and his entire face is a dull shade of grey, lifeless and practically see through. The worst part, though, is the blood. There's blood dripping from his mouth, and it splatters the concrete floor, the couch, the blanket, and himself every time he coughs, which is about every other second. Sam's stomach feels like it's caught in his throat.

"Dean," he whispers, shaking his brother's shoulder as gently as possible. He nearly gasps once he opens his completely bloodshot eyes; God knows how many vessels he's popped from all of that barking. "We need to get you to a hospital," he says as calmly as possible, even though he feels like he's going to throw up and lose it altogether. He has never once seen Dean like this, who is know smiling bloodily at him, a signature goofy grin on his face.

"S'm." His voice is almost entirely gone. "H'ppy t' see 'ou."

The brunette nods and carefully runs his fingers through Dean's sweat soaked hair. He's more than burning up; his face is a hot mess. Sam gently lifts his brother up bridal style, trying his best to ignore the smell. Who the fuck knows how long Dean has been lying there in his own filth and piss. He should have been there, and he internally is cursing himself the entire way to the car. Why the hell did he leave? Why is Dean so freaking sick?

Dean whimpers and groans out loud when Sam sets him down in the passenger seat, covering him up with a new, clean blanket. He grips at his chest and coughs harshly a few more times, and Sam can't even pretend to not notice the tears streaming down his cheeks. He wipes the new blood with an old t-shirt of his, cringing at the leftover cherry red stains on his chin. Dean immediately curls in on himself, sinking down to where his head is touching Sam's knee.

He runs a hand through his brother's hair the entire fifteen minute ride to the hospital. It's as though every ounce of anger toward him has vanished, and he simply wants Dean to be okay. It's one thing to be mad at him when everything is as normal as it can be for them, but this is crazy. He pulls frantically into the hospital parking lot and wastes no time hoisting his brother into his arms and watching him being whisked away on a stretcher.

And, for the first time in over a week, Sam realizes what he's done to his brother.

* * *

_February 16, 2014_

Dean has been in the hospital for three days with severe double lung pneumonia. He's spent the last few nights feverish and coughing bits and pieces of his lungs all over the place. Sam has been there the entire time, praying for absolution and forgiveness and for someone to keep his brother safe. Dean is still extremely sick, but today he's at least semi-flirting with the nurses and snarking at the doctor for keeping him here longer than he wants.

Sam has passed the time when he's asleep by holding his hand, feeling the same fingers that used to sooth him as a child. He's an idiot. Sam's understood from the very beginning that Dean wanted to save him for a "selfish" reason, but then it causes him to think backward to his childhood when Dean read and sang to him and even diapered his ass for the first two years of his life. He's never had a mother or a father, but he's always had Dean.

Without any hesitation, Sam scoots his brother's table of uneaten lunch away and carefully lies down in the small bed next to him. Dean is half-watching some cheesy soap opera on TV, and he instantly glares at his brother. "What?" he asks, moving over a little to give him some room. Sam winces at the sound of his voice and puts his finger to his lips, signaling for him to be quiet. The doctor said it could be weeks before his voice comes all the way back.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, although he's not sure why.

Dean shakes his head. "Don't apologize. I'm sorry, dude."

"Look, I know why you did it, and, while I'm not entirely okay with it, I at least can respect it."

For the first time in nearly two weeks, Sam sees his brother smile.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, JTRN08! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	68. BamaBelle2012 (III)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the wonderfully amazing televisions show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so very much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! I truly, sincerely do appreciate it! =)

BamaBelle2012 requested: "How about a fic where Dean has a really bad asthma attack, which leads to him being hospitalized for a few days and has to go home and be on oxygen for a few weeks? He's not thrilled about having to haul an oxygen tank and a nasal cannula, but, as always, Sam looks after his grouchy big brother, and you could also throw in Cas. Can take place in any season!" I adore this! So much potential fluff! I'm going to set this one in early season 9. AU.

By the way, I'm sorry if my medical information sucks or is entirely inaccurate.

* * *

BamaBelle2012 (III)

* * *

_November 20, 2013_

"How're you feeling?" Sam questions, rubbing Dean's warm back lightly with a single hand, using the other to hold him up as best as he can. His older brother is hovering over the bathroom sink, his knuckles ghost white as he seemingly holds on for dear life. Dean coughs and vomits up phlegm and a few drops of blood into the porcelain, and Sam winces. His brother has been sick for a better part of the week; it feels so long that he can't remember what he's like when he's healthy. It started out with a slight fever, runny nose, and cough that blossomed into this.

Dean is trembling excessively and struggling to catch his breath. The room around him is spinning, and he nearly passes out once he sees his reflection in the mirror. His hair is damp and greasy with sweat, his cheeks are flushed bright red, and there are deep bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. He's spent the last few nights barely sleeping, rotating between running to the bathroom to drink water and rolling every which way to become comfortable.

He has zero energy to continue standing, so he voluntarily lets himself practically crash into Sam's chest, wrapping his arms around his back to support his weight. He feels Sam grab on to him too, and they waddle their way back to Dean's bedroom. His younger brother helps him lean against the headboard and take some more much needed medicine before sliding him down and covering him with nearly every blanket they have in the bunker.

Sam can't get over how ill his brother is. Sure, they've both been known to get colds and flus, but this is intense. Dean's chest hasn't stopped spasming in five or six days, and he knows that it's hard for him to rest up. He wishes he could take the asthma away from his brother because he would be able to sleep and get better if he wasn't coughing and breathing so heavily constantly. If he could, he would trade places with him in a heartbeat.

The younger Winchester soothes his dark blond hair from his forehead. "Try to get some sleep."

* * *

Sam is half-asleep, his hand loosely gripping the television remote. He's recently showered and changed into pajamas for the night, despite it only being a little past eight. Dean has been conked out since about an hour ago, but it wasn't easy to get him to settle down. He's sure his asthma medication, which he just filled about two weeks ago, won't make it a month, and he had to basically rock him in his arms in order to get him to fall asleep. But, since then, he's been snoring through his massive congestion and completely out like a light.

The brunette runs a quick hair through his still damp hair and turns off the TV, rolling on to his side and clicking off the bedside lamp. He figures Dean will be up coughing some time soon, so it's best to get as much sleep as he possibly can. He's just settling down and feeling his body relax and mind wander when there's a quiet, hesitant knock at his door. Sam groans internally and semi-reluctantly hoists himself out of bed, even though he already knows who it is.

Dean collapses into his chest once again as soon as he opens the door. "Whoa," he says, holding on to him as best as he can. He flips on the bedroom light and lightly begins to tap Dean's scorching cheek. His lips are almost a dark shade of blue, and there's no life or color in his cheeks. Shit. He checks his pulse and feels how hard he's shivering and breathing and wonders how they hell he managed to walk down to his room in this state.

The older Winchester can't breathe nearly at all. It's like he's getting air in through a thin, tiny straw, and it's making every inch of his body quiver in panic. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. This mantra that normally works during an average asthma attack doesn't, especially since he's been sick before it started. He grips tightly on to his chest and tries to pry the hoodie Sam threw over him off, his entire being soaking wet with sweat and hot and sticky.

Sam knows that they only have one option at this point. His mind is whirling around rapidly, and his hands shake as he carries his ill brother in his arms to the Impala in the garage. Dean's asthma attacks have been more frequent lately, but it definitely doesn't help that he's under the weather on top of it. He places him gently in the passenger seat and covers him with the blanket from the trunk. Sam turns the heat on as high as it will go and slams on the gas, peeling out of the garage and speeding down the back roads toward the nearest hospital.

* * *

_November 21, 2013_

"'m sleepy, S'mmy," Dean mumbles through his oxygen mask, batting at the device with cupped hands. His voice is beyond hoarse and sounds like a cat shriveled up and died in there, but it's better than him still being practically comatose. Sam just lowers his hands to his lap and rolls his eyes, but not in a rude or annoyed manner. Dean's on hefty painkillers, and they're making him a bit more wired than he should be, given their current situation.

The diagnosis itself is rather simple: beginning stage pneumonia. But it's not entirely just the pneumonia that caused such a drastic and scary attack. Dean's medication needs to be upped a lot, and, as a result, he'll have to be on additional oxygen for about two weeks while he waits for the medication to arrive and kick in once it's in his system. His older brother doesn't know all of this yet, but he's probably going to kill everyone with snarkiness and attitude before it's over.

Dean's chest is incredibly sore and thumping heavily, but under controlled. With the oxygen mask supplying sweet relief to his battered lungs, he no longer feels lightheaded or dizzy. He doesn't get panicked over his own health that often, but yesterday really did freak him out. It was one of those close calls that could have potentially left him brain dead or completely dead due to lack of oxygen. Hell, he could have even had a heart attack in his brother's arms.

Sam is sitting in a red plastic chair beside his hospital bed when Dean grabs his hand with his cold and clammy one. His younger brother jumps and glances up from his novel, tired eyes explaining it all. Dean gulps and knows Sam's been up for over twenty-four hours straight on top of the very few hours he was getting due to his illness. His eyes are bloodshot and drooping, and he looks like he's about to pass out any second, so Dean pats his bed.

"No, Dean. You need your rest too."

The blond shakes his head. "C'mon, S'mmy. Won't bite."

Sam rolls his eyes once again, but puts the book down in the chair once he stands up. His back hurts from sitting in such an uncomfortable piece of furniture for hours on end with zero relief, and his nerves are fried from lack of sleep and too much coffee. He's careful to avoid Dean's heart monitor, oxygen supply, and IV while he gently lies down in bed. The mattress provides immediate relief for his sore body, and he sinks down deeper into it.

Dean can't help but smile once Sam cuddles his head into his shoulder, snoring almost instantly. "G'night, baby brother."

* * *

_November 22, 2013_

"You're shitting me!" Dean half-shouts through the oxygen mask.

Sam shakes his head and watches as his brother starts his temper tantrum. Thankfully, it's just the two of them in the room for now. He's just informed Dean that he'll be going home tomorrow with a nasal cannula and oxygen tank to tow around. At first, he looks like he's going to burst into tears, but then the true Dean Winchester in him takes over, and his face is permanently pinched in disgust and anger. Yep. Typical.

"Dude, it's just two weeks."

Not to mention, they need the break. Between Dean being sick and the nearly constant hunting, these two weeks of him being home and not able to do much should be worth it. Sam knows it will get boring by the end of the first week, but maybe it will show his older brother that rest is sometimes a welcomed and good thing. He understands that hauling around that equipment will be frustrating, but he needs the assistance more than he's willing to admit.

"Yeah," Dean scoffs. "Two weeks of Hell and torture."

The younger Winchester sits down on the edge of his bed. "It won't be so bad. We'll take it easy and watch any movie you want."

Dean shakes his head this time. "Not good enough."

Sam chuckles. At least this is progress. "How about I buy a pie on the way back to the bunker tomorrow?"

"Now you're talking."

* * *

_November 23, 2013_

By the time they arrive back at the Batcave, Dean is irritatingly exhausted and feels himself growing crankier and crankier with each passing second. He's still wobbly on his feet, which makes the journey to his bedroom with the oxygen tank lagging behind seem like a century. He finally collapses on his bed, toes off his boots, and closes his eyes. Unfortunately, the cannula falls out of his nose with the movements, and he's left semi-breathless.

He sits up and hurriedly places it back in his nose, sighing in relief. Damn, his stupid lungs must be weaker than he thought. Dean coughs twice before settling back down, waiting for his dumb baby brother to come in with their duffel bags. They only spent three nights at the hospital, but Sam has always been an over packer, so there's a bit more to carry than just him. Sam returns, and Dean tries to act annoyed again, but he's too tired.

"Are you good?" Sam asks while grabbing two blankets from his bedroom closet. Dean's eyes are already half-mast, and he looks nearly peaceful as opposed to pissed. The car ride back was terrible and filled with his constant and continuous complaints, which he knows are only bound to become increasingly worse as more time passes. However, their DVD collection is massive, so they have enough entertainment to suffice him for a while.

Dean wearily nods and mumbles a "thank you" when he feels the warm covers being pulled up his shoulders. He snuggles deep into his new memory foam pillow, trying not to yell when the cannula begins to pop out once again. He punches the fluffy pillow before rolling on to his back, deciding that side sleeping was out for now. Shit. "Sammy," he whines. "I can't sleep." And it's one hundred percent true. He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep.

He watches Sam settle down next to him and put his head on his chest.

And, before he knows it, it's like his brother has soothed him to sleep once again.

* * *

_November 24, 2013_

Their secret knock at the main entrance of the bunker rings in Sam's ears. He carefully maneuvers his sleeping and snoring brother from his resting place on his shoulder to the couch pillows. He swings his legs up and covers the rest of his body; he's thankful he doesn't stir. Sam rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns, stretching fully awake as he walks up the stairs. Through the peephole is a familiar face of a friend they've both missed.

"Hello, Sam," Cas greets, smiling warmly.

Sam nods. "Hey, Cas." He ushers him inside. Their ex-angel friend is wearing a dark blue beanie, a thick black winter coat, jeans, and snow boots. His cheeks are red from the vicious late fall wind, and there's snow nestled everywhere on his surface. "Here for a little visit?"

The shorter man nods and begins plucking the multiple layers he's wearing off of himself. Sam picks the sopping articles up and carries them into their laundry room, leaving Cas in the main living room with his arms crossed over his chest and shivering. Neither Dean's nor his own clothes will fit the much smaller human, so he grabs his own thickest hoodie and sweatpants for him to change into. He adds a pair of wool socks to the mixture.

When he reaches the living room, he notes that Cas is sitting in the recliner, rocking back and forth quietly. "What happened to Dean?" he asks, motioning toward the oxygen tank next to his sleeping form and the nasal cannula beneath his nose.

"He had a really bad asthma attack. It's just pneumonia, but he has to use that until his new meds come in."

Cas may be new to being a human, but he's already familiar with the concept of illness, especially after watching the Winchester brothers take care of each other nearly flawlessly a thousand times or more. Dean is snoring quietly with his face nuzzled into a pillow, the cannula sticking out slightly, but Sam fixes that the second Cas notices. The human gratefully accepts the new clothes and goes to the bathroom to put them on, leaving the brothers alone once again.

By the time he returns, Sam and Dean are cuddled together once again.

* * *

_November 26, 2013_

"I can't do it anymore!" Dean shouts, throwing the cannula out of his nose and nearly knocking the oxygen tank over as he stomps into the kitchen. His lungs feel like quivering Jello, and he can feel the lack of sweet relief almost instantly. Without his daily asthma medication, which he has been taking since he was three, he's left exhausted and so fucking tired of dragging around that damn thing. At this point, he's barely got a sniffle, but he can't get rid of that thing.

Sam lugs the medical equipment into the kitchen to find his sulking and pissed off brother rummaging through the cabinets, settling on a bowl of cereal to comfort his hungry stomach. Without warning, he reaches from behind him and sneakily shoves the cannula back in his nose. He listens to his incessant cursing before Dean finally gives up and collapses on a barstool, cereal still clutched tightly in his grasps. Sam pours the bowl and adds the milk for him.

"I'm so sick of this, Sammy!"

Sam nods. "I know, bro, but we gotta get you better."

"Can't I just go a little while without it?"

"No way. Do you have a death wish?"

"Whatever..." Dean mumbles before he promptly shovels Cheerios with extra sugar into his mouth.

* * *

_November 30, 2013_

At this point, Sam, Dean, and Cas have watched nearly every movie they own, and they've moved on to watching cheesy films on Netflix. Sam is relaxing in the recliner with a book in his lap just in case, and Dean has effectively found a way to snuggle into Cas's chest on the long leather couch without losing his cannula. The youngest Winchester has decided not to point out to his older brother that he is definitely cuddling with an ex angel of the lord.

"I think he's asleep," Cas whispers, glancing over at Sam. He's stayed the last three nights with the brothers, and he's never felt more at home. He wishes he could live here with them, but it's really not wise. However, he is glad he came back with Dean being ill and all because Sam said it allows him a break to get some sleep himself, and sleep is good. Plus, Cas is more than happy to help out, especially since it is Dean, and Dean's his best friend.

The taller brunette nods. "Shh then. Go to sleep, Cas."

* * *

_December 2, 2013_

Sam and Cas are putting up a Christmas tree while Dean sorts through the ornaments, carefully selecting the ones he likes the best. He frustratingly sighs because the damn cannula keeps falling out, but he's trying to be more patient, especially with there only being a little over three more weeks until their first officially good holiday at the bunker. He places it back in and moves on, listening to his brother and friend argue.

"It's crooked!"

"No, that's definitely straight!"

"You tell me when you put up the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building if it's straight or not!"

"Don't use that angel bullshit on me!"

Dean shakes his head and fiddles with the assortment of colors in the numerous boxes scattered around him. There are three more days until his new meds will be in, but that doesn't matter to him anymore. What matters are the cookies he and Cas baked and frosted together sitting on the kitchen table and the stockings he and Sam wrote all of their names on hanging over the fireplace. What matters is that they're alive and all here together.

He smiles and stands up to go help his brothers.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, BamaBelle2012! Thank you for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	69. Tia (I)

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the brilliant television show_ Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so very much for getting me to 500 reviews! It does feel completely amazing and wonderful! =)

Tia requested:" If you have time, could you write the sneeziest illness and/or allergy of Dean's life. I hope that's not too vague. I do prefer it to be set during the series and for Sam to be the one doing the caretaking." I always say this, but poor Dean! He really has gone through the ringer in these one-shots. Anyway, I think this prompt is pretty unique! I'm going to go ahead and set this one in season one because I haven't written a way earlier season fic in a while.

* * *

Tia

* * *

_March 8, 2006_

When Dean slowly slips from fine to under the weather, he doesn't say a word to his brother. Even though they've been traveling together for the past five months, he still isn't entirely comfortable with having him take care of him again. Dean willingly let Sam quit the family business and go off to Stanford because he's a big brother; he has the best interest in mind, and he doesn't want Sam to get hurt. But, a level of trust has severed.

It's not that he doesn't trust Sam. In fact, when it comes to hunting, he trusts him even more than Dad. For Dean, his brother is his safety net and comfortable to latch on to, but, once Sam left, he was nothing. Other than hunting, he wasn't a person. Dad didn't need him, and he was so used to caring for his little brother that, often times, he would just lie in bed looking up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head wondering what Sam was doing.

And if that wasn't bad enough to live through, Dean constantly had to worry about Sam being tracked down and killed in his sleep or at some dumbass frat party with his friends. He didn't call him because he didn't want to put him in danger, but mainly because he wanted to see if Sam would make the first initiative. He never did. So Dean would leave him voicemails on his birthday and Christmas and pray that he would at least receive a text message.

Unfortunately for him, he wound up losing his brother. Hunting became a routine and so monotonous that Dad probably got sick of him and decided to let him go on cases by himself. It didn't surprise him. Without Sam, there was no reason to smile, laugh, eat, or talk unless Dad was giving him orders, to which he always responded with "yes, sir." Dean wasn't a person the four years his brother was gone, and, now that he's back, it's just difficult.

So when he wakes up with a sore throat, headache, and congested nose, he doesn't bother to fiddle around with medicine or tissues. Hiding it from Sam would be good enough, and he doesn't even have to know he's coming down with something. Instead, he takes two careful huffs from his inhaler after he gets out of the shower and dresses in warm enough clothes to combat the five fresh inches of snow that fell overnight. He sniffles quietly and exits the bathroom.

The brunette Winchester is pecking away at his school laptop, the one with the Stanford sticker proudly labeled on it. Dean gulps and ponders about how he's taking losing Jess and the place he was calling home. But, he will admit that he and Sam have had quite a few discussions about this topic, some productive and some where Sam practically shuts down in front of his eyes, his stitched shut seams bursting back open in anger and depression.

On this frigid early March morning, Sam looks okay. Or as okay as it makes sense to be. Dean sits down on the edge of his bed to cover his bare feet with wool socks and tie the laces of his old boots. Sam closes the computer and begins to pack his bags. A pleasant silence occupies the shitty motel room that smells like ass and wet dog, one that Dean remembers from ages ago. Unless they're fighting, it's always rather nice in the rooms, regardless of their physical state.

He puts his contacts in while Sam packs the Impala with their duffels. Dean runs a quick hand through his partially damp hair and tries his best not to sneeze. One sneeze is all it takes, and Sam will be all over him. He isn't in the mood to be coddled or prodded at, and he certainly doesn't want his brother to do it. Like he said, he's not entirely comfortable with that yet, and, as nice as it sounds, he feels like he sort of has a right not to be.

"Ready?" Sam asks, bouncing on his heels and seemingly eager to hit the road. His stupid shaggy hair is falling into his chocolate eyes, and Dean can still see the hope that vanished from his orbs the second Dad told Sam to leave and never come back. He nods and winces internally when snot slowly begins to drip down the back of his throat. The older Winchester makes his way outside, careful not to slip on the snow and ice cluttering the parking lot.

The inside of Impala is warm and toasty, thanks to his little brother coming out to start it while he was still in the bathroom. He glances over at Sam before putting it into reverse. His brother has opened up some novel and instantly begins to read, his eyes lighting up more with each word he comes upon. Dean just sniffles silently somehow and creeps slowly down the road, his heart wanting nothing more than to give in and let his brother help him. But he can't.

* * *

Dean stops at a local diner four hours of barely moving down the highway later. Sam has protested numerous times that he's starving, but Dean hasn't actually been hungry in what feels like years. The brunette likes to think that he eats junk food constantly, but he truly doesn't. In fact, when he was hunting with Dad, he barely touched any food, which is how he managed to drop nearly twenty pounds before he saw his brother again.

Now, he's got three extra holes poked into his belt by a screwdriver and Dad's old leather jacket that really sags off of him now. It used to be big on his frame, and now it's simply ridiculously huge. His bones creek in exhaustion, and his head is pounding behind his eyes as he searches the menu for something that looks appetizing. But, there's nothing, as usual, so he orders his usual in order to make Sam thinks he's okay: a double cheeseburger.

After sipping at his Coke, he feels a tickle in his nose. He wipes beneath it, grimacing without showing it at the snot coating his fingers. Great. Dean feels wiped out and like he could sleep for a week, but they're on their way to hunt yet another Wendigo in Indiana, which means they have to keep going if they want to save more peoples' lives. And then he feels one more tickle, and, before he knows it, he's sneezed directly on his brother's face.

"Um, ew," is all Sam says, cleaning his cheeks with a brown napkin.

"Sorry," Dean replies in a gravelly voice. He sneezes into his cupped hands and gratefully accepts the wad of tissues Sam has pulled magically from his pocket. His eyes are already drooping closed, and the hammering in his head is only made worse with each of the six other sneezes he lets rip through the diner. He's out of breath once he feels finished for now, and he wants nothing more than to curl up on San's chest and sleep the rest of this off.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, even though Dean knows full well that he knows the answer. Sam has always been like that. He's inquisitive to the point of annoyance, even when he is smart enough to figure it out for himself. "Do you want to stop for night?" As much as Dean would love to say yes, he knows that there are lives at stake, so he shakes his head. "Too bad. You need to rest," he says, causing Dean to roll his eyes in frustration and irritation.

"Then why'd you even ask?"

Sam shrugs and then waves the waitress down for the check. "Wanted to see if you'd make the right decision. Congrats; you failed."

Dean rolls his eyes again and sneezes harshly into his coat sleeve, pinching up his face once he sees the trail of snot on the black surface. Sam scrawls out the fake signature he's using on the bill, tips the girl, and takes off the beanie covering his hair. "N'way, I'm n-" is all he manages to get out before Sam tugs it over his hair. Dean's only reply is another sneeze before he crosses his arms and shakily walks out to the Impala, only to be booted into the passenger seat.

"I know you think that seat is for bitches, but there's no way you're driving, sneezy."

He reluctantly buckles his seatbelt and doesn't say anything more. Dean doesn't want Sam to take care of him, especially not now when he can just feel and know this is going to suck dick. Part of him wishes he could have found a way to cover this up, but it's really hard to hide sneezes and this level of congestion. The blond Winchester snuggles his face up against the window and tries not to throw a fit when his sneezes splatter all over his baby.

* * *

By the time they reach a new motel, Dean is sneezing every two seconds, has gone through an entire box of tissues they keep in case of emergencies, and can't quit shivering to save his life. Sam even has to help him inside the room because his sneezes are blocking his vision. Immediately, he flops into bed, rolling on his side with a Kleenex balled up inside both nostrils, which just makes it grosser when he sneezes them back out on to Sam's bed.

"You goin' for a record?" Sam asks, smiling goofily even though Dean can tell he knows he's miserable. The younger of the two hands the older his contact lens case, and Dean pries his sore eyes open to pull them out and put them in the container. He instantly begins to rub his eyes, sputtering and sneezing continuously. "Alright, will you be okay? We really need some supplies if you wanna kick this thing." Dean nods and waves him on.

Sam gives him a visible once-over before he shuts the door and heads back out into the tundra that is currently Illinois. Dean knows that Sam is going to force him to shower, so he gets up and does that himself, despite the fact that sneezing so much and so rapidly is causing him to become increasingly lightheaded. Sam doesn't need to take care of him; he can do it alone. He's used to it anyway. When his brother was at Stanford, he shattered his collarbone and then got a cold the next week and still somehow managed to survive and recover.

He snuffles back more snot and turns on the hot water, removing his clothing and stepping into the liquid. It relieves some of his congestion and helps his senses open up a bit more. He rubs his nose until it's raw and sneezes until he ends up falling on to his knees. His vision goes entirely black, and he struggles to push himself into a standing position. And then he slumps backwards and feels his entire body caving in, but not before sneezing one last time.

* * *

"Dean!"

The older Winchester blinks awake and immediately tries to curl in on himself. Shit. What the hell happened? Where is he? He checks his surroundings with blurry vision, spitting out water. Wait. Water. Shower. What happened? He wipes his face and sneezes once again, seeing a fuzzy hand try to grip at him "What?" he manages to ask, sneezing instantly with tears or water, whichever one, spilling over his cheeks and being rinsed away.

Suddenly, the now cold water is turned off, and Dean's left shivering and sneezing even more, tucked in a small ball on the floor of the shower. A towel is handed to him, and he begins to use it as a blanket before he feels himself actually being dried off. Sam towels off his hair and the rest of his body and then somehow manages to get him into the warmest, comfiest clothes he can possibly imagine. Dean doesn't bother to fight; he can't anyway.

And here he is with Sam taking care of him as if nothing has happened. He isn't sure how he feels about it currently, but he knows that he's grateful. Dean is so dizzy and lightheaded and fucking sick of sneezing that his entire body is nothing but a six foot one source of pain, and his nose is about to fall off. He doesn't compute how he gets into bed or is so drugged up that it feels like he's floating away on some ship that isn't about to go overboard like him.

* * *

Dean wakes up what feels like years later. His eyes are sore when he pries them open, and his head is nothing more than air to him. "Hetsch! Hetsch! Hetsch!" He groans quietly and wipes his nose on the long sleeve shirt he can't remember putting on. Dean rolls on to his side and tries not to pass out with the sudden lightheadedness that threatens to swallow him whole. The blankets surrounding him are soft and warm, but the sneezing has got to stop.

"How're you feeling?" he hears a quiet voice ask.

The older Winchester peeks through the mound of covers to see that Sam is hovering over him with a box of tissues in his hands. He reaches out a clammy hand and grabs them greedily, messily blowing his nose into them, but not before sneezing three more times. He burrows back into the comforter and pillow and tries to ineffectively ignore Sam. Dean isn't in the mood to talk, and he wants to somehow manage to fall back asleep.

Suddenly, the bed dips, and he feels a pair of arms encircle his body. "Get off!" he snarls hoarsely, trying to kick and push his brother away. Not a single fiber of his being wants this. All of a sudden he feels so fucking betrayed. He was left all alone, and the one person who could fix it managed to escape and move on. Dean can't move on, and it doesn't feel like he'll ever be able to. "I mean it, Sam," he manages to squeak out. "Hetsch!"

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispers directly into his ear. Dean has never been able to not forgive his baby brother. Hell, he used to change his diapers. He was the one who taught him how to read at age four. And he was definitely the one who made his geeky little brother somewhat decently cool at certain times. It's like Sam knows exactly what is going on in his head, and he has mixed emotions on it. He sneezes a few more times and rolls on to his side, facing Sam.

"For what?"

Sam shrugs. "For everything. I know me leaving was tough on you, but I want you to know that I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."

"How do I know you won't go again?" Dean asks almost inaudibly.

Sam squeezes him tighter, and Dean feels tears leaking out of his eyes and soaking into his little brother's hoodie. "I can't leave you again." And, even though it's the most massive chick-flick moment he can possibly think of, it doesn't matter to him. For the first time in four years, Dean finally lets his guard down long enough for Sam to hold him and cradle him against his chest and let himself just be fucking vulnerable for once. "I love you," he says softly.

He sneezes once more before he responds with, "I love you too, baby brother."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Tia! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	70. Zana Zira (IV)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you very much for favoriting, following, requesting, reviewing, and simply reading! =)

Zana Zira requested: "How about, in honor of it almost being summer vacation, Dean with a bad sunburn and/or heatstroke. I know I don't tolerate the well at all and tend to get kind of faint, which I'd love to see Dean deal with, and since he's way more fair-skinned than Sam or Cas, he would probably burn like a lobster." I am extremely pale and pasty, so this would be me too! I love this prompt because it's really unique, and I haven't written one like it!

I'm going to set this between seasons 8 and 9. Completely and totally AU. I hope that you all don't mind that I added in Cas for fun.

* * *

Zana Zira (IV)

* * *

_June 27, 2013_

"I am ready to get out of the car now," Cas states. He's been in the backseat of the Impala for what seems like an eternity, and he knows all too well what that feels like. The newly turned human groans and lays his head back on the seat, staring out at the summer sky. He's always found summer to be a relaxing time of year, but, now that he can gauge how much heat drains the life out of someone, it is more distressful than he previously knew. Unfortunately for him, though, the car is freezing, and he can't wait to get out of it.

Sam is half-asleep in the passenger seat when he blinks his eyes open and stretches out his cramped muscles. He yawns and scratches his cheek, glancing in the backseat with only one orb squinting at Cas. The smaller brunette is gazing listlessly out the window, his arms crossed over his chest. He chuckles and turns down the air conditioning, only to have it immediately turned back on by his older brother. "It's cold as dick in here!" he exclaims.

The blond Winchester scrunches up his face. "Um, I'd love the hear the story of how you know that, really, but I'm fresh out of 'who cares' for the day." He's been driving for seven and a half hours straight, and neither Cas nor Sam knows where they're heading. He smiles to himself. The two of them give up long ago on trying to guess, but Dean is a bit surprised Sam hasn't guessed it yet. He entirely agrees wit Cas; he is ready to get the hell out of his baby and into the sun.

And the fact that it's nearly ninety-five degrees outside is the reason why he refuses to turn the air-conditioning off. They will need all the cool, refreshing air they can get before they surrender themselves to the late June summer day. Dean shifts in his seat and tries to rub out the persistent aching in his neck with one hand and scratches his eye beneath his sunglasses. The entire drive was made without his contacts, which was a massive mistake in itself. However, he doesn't want to bother or worry his brother and friend, so he ignores it.

"Six Flags?" Sam asks incredulously. "We drove, like, eight hours for an amusement park?"

Cas instantly sits up in the backseat. "Are there corndogs?" he questions excitedly.

"That's my boy," Dean says, noticing Cas's enthusiasm. Hell, they _never_ get a break, and the monsters and demons and ghosts will have to wait a day or two while they actually have some fun for once. He's only been to an amusement park once in his life at age seven with Bobby, and Sam was too young to remember anything, and it was an absolute blast. After paying for parking, the older Winchester puts his baby into park and pats his brother's bare knee.

"Hand me my contacts case, would ya?"

Sam's eyes widen considerably, and he can see it, even behind his sunglasses. "You drove this entire time without being able to see?"

"Relax, brother man. I've done it before."

The younger Winchester rolls his eyes. "Don't go all stoner on me," he retaliates with a lopsided grin. Despite the fact that Dean is thirty-four, Cas is an ex freaking angel of the Lord, and Sam just turned thirty last month, he's kind of thrilled to be here. The place is filled to the brim with amazing roller coasters, but it also has a waterpark to cool them off if the heat gets to be too much for them. "Lather up," he says, tossing tubes of sunscreen to his brother and friend.

Cas glares at the tube behind his sunglasses. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"You rub it on your skin to keep yourself from getting a sunburn," he states. The answer seems to be good enough for the small brunette, who simply shrugs and squirts some on his hands. He can't help but chuckle at the ridiculous outfit Dean bought for him. Cas is wearing these hideous bright orange floral swimming trunks, a pair of tennis shoes that are at least two sizes too big, and a grey t-shirt with a cartoon shark on it that looks like something he should find in the kids section at Walmart. Compared to their plaid swimming trunks, Dean's blue t-shirt, Sam's green v-neck, and their slip on shoes, Cas seems all of four frigging years old.

Dean clasps his hands together and looks at the other men. "Let's get this freakin' show on the road. I'm hungry."

"When are you not hungry?" Sam asks.

"I'm gonna ignore that just because there's a shit ton of fried food in there and no salads."

"To the corndogs!" Cas shouts.

* * *

Five hours later, and they've moved on from the roller coasters and binging on junk food to the waterpark. Sam, for one, is insanely grateful because his v-neck is soaked through with sweat, and his hair is sticking to his face. Dean's been busting his balls about getting a haircut, but he laughs him off instead. Surprisingly, this idea of fun is actually _fun,_ which is rare since Dean's sense of fun is curling up on a couch with whiskey and a warm blanket and watching TV, especially since they moved into the bunker. He's such an old lady sometimes.

Cas has vomited five times from eating too much and the rides not settling well with his stomach, but he doesn't bother to let that stop him. The tiny brunette runs a hand through his damp hair, his nerves fried and frazzled from too much excitement, but he's ready to see what the hell a waterpark is all about. Even though he's hot and sweaty, and he's fallen and scraped his knees pretty badly, Cas still can't get over how amazing this day is turning out.

The older Winchester peels off his heavy t-shirt, throwing it on to the beach chairs and pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. He is itching to get in the water since it will be cold and refreshing since he's just about sweated through his entire outfit. He watches Cas and Sam remove their shirts and only chuckles a bit when he notices just how white his best friend is. "Dude, you're pasty," he informs Cas, who looks down at his bare chest.

"I believe you are two shades paler than me."

Sam nods. "He's right. You're the white one here."

"Yeah, whatever. Race you to the waterslide!" he shouts, kicking off his slip on shoes and padding across the scalding hot concrete, stepping in every puddle he can on his way there. Cas and Sam sprint behind him, and, he's not kidding, he feels all of ten years old again. He feels free and alive and vibrant and so incredibly happy to be here with his brothers. He beats them to the tallest slide in the park and rushes up the stairs, only to be stopped by traffic.

"Why has the line stopped?" Cas asks.

"Tourists," Sam and Dean both say at the same time, eyeing each other, even though they know they're tourists too.

During the nearly twenty-five minute wait to get to the front of the line, they're standing in the hot and humid mid-afternoon sun. Sam's waterproof watch states that it's just past two, which is the heat of the day, and he's starting to sweat even more. They really should have gotten in the water for a bit first. Cas is leaning rather closely to Dean, their shoulders touching, and, this time, his big brother doesn't even bother to lecture him about personal space.

Finally, it's nearly Dean's turn when Cas grabs at his best friend's elbow. "I am frightened by the height of this slide."

"You'll be okay. I promise it's fun."

"What if I fall and splatter to my death?"

Sam grimaces. What a lovely image. "That won't happen."

Cas glares back at Sam through his kiddie sunglasses. "And how do you know for sure?"

"Because I won't let anything happen to you," Dean says. "It's just a ride. It will be over soon just like the rest."

The small brunette nods, but he bites his lip tentatively. It's a long way down. Dean hands his sunglasses to his much larger younger brother, who tucks them safely in his swimming trunks pockets. Cas watches as Dean sits down, crosses his ankles and arms and slides down in an eruption of water. He gulps loudly and glances toward Sam with his lip trembling. "It's alright, Cas," he hears the brunette Winchester say.

And, before he knows it, he's sliding at what feels like light speed down this green tubular thing in the middle of summer. And it's awesome. There's a magnificent sense of freedom that occupies his mind and soul, kind of like being angel and being able to fly. By the time he reaches the bottom, Sam is taking his turn, and Dean is waiting for him on the concrete, smacking his hand with what humans call a high five and a giant smile spread across his face.

"I told you nothing bad would happen to you," he says.

* * *

The Winchester brothers and their ex-angel best friend exit Six Flags right as it closes. Cas is completely dead on his feet and is incredibly thankful when Dean says they will pull over at a hotel to spend the night. Yes, hotel and not motel. They've blown pretty much every dollar they have today, so they might as well keep going. The exhaustion is nagging at the back of his mind, and he yawns multiple times on his way out of the park.

Sam is a sweating mess, and, while he had a blast today, he can't wait to take a shower. The waterpark was easily the best part since it kept him cool, but seeing his brother so ecstatic was a breath of fresh air. Dean doesn't smile or laugh all that much, but he did it more times than he's seen since they were kids today. Sam throws his arms around his big brother's shoulders, who is walking almost drunkeningly through the parking lot, but Dean shrugs him away.

"What?" Sam asks.

Dean shrugs and then shakes his head. "Nothin'. Shoulders and back hurt is all."

"Maybe you pulled a muscle?"

"Nah. A little sunburned, I think."

Sam isn't shocked. Hell, he can tell that he and Cas are burned too, even at night. Cas's ears are fried, and Sam has an uncomfortable tingly sensation covering both of his legs. They'll probably sleep all day tomorrow and not want to make the drive back to Kansas for a few more days. He winces as they clamber into the Impala, which is a sight for sore eyes considering how exhausted they all are. Sam tries not to pay attention to how slow his brother's movements are.

Thankfully, the instant the car starts, Sam is conked out with his head on the window, hands stuffed in his hoodie pouch that he just put on. Cas is in the backseat, draped with the army blanket from the trunk and snoring quietly. Dean wants to smile, but that would hurt like a son of a bitch. His shoulders, back, chest, arms, face, and legs all burn intensely, and he's beginning to get a little lightheaded, even though he's only been driving for ten minutes.

His vision blurs behind his contacts, and he yawns loudly, which sends his entire body spasming in pain. He's shivering, even though his skin singes and feels like it's on fire. Dean pulls over about twenty minutes later at a nice-looking hotel to check all three of them in. His brother and best friend are completely wiped out, so he does the honors, even though he can tell how sunburned he truly is with every step he takes inside.

The cold air hits him like a ton of bricks, and he shuffles past the bystanders who are looking at him with uncertainty. Even his hand aches when he scribbles a signature on the receipt, not even bothering to check if it reads Winchester or O'Malley like the card he used. His next job is to get Sam and Cas out of the Impala, and something tells him that it's not going to be easy. Sam he can handle, but Cas is probably going to be sick from all that shit he ate in the morning.

He shakes his brother awake, who jolts with a snort. He rubs his hands over his face and blinks blearily at Dean. "Here?" he asks.

"Yep. We're room 317. Here." He hands him the key, and Sam groans out loud like a five year old little boy. Dean rolls his eyes and sighs heavily before glancing back at Cas, whose mouth is wide open in the backseat. He supposes he'll be alright while he helps Sam. "Alright, Sammy. Let's get you to bed." And, even though every inch of his body burns and protests, he somehow picks up his two hundred something pound brother bridal style.

He's in the elevator when he realizes he'll have to carry Cas as well. The people in elevator stare rather angrily and rudely, but Dean just keeps his mouth shut. He leans his head against the wall and tries to not drop his baby brother on the ground. He's shaking and shivering and needs to shower and sleep to make all of this go away. By the time he reaches the room, he practically shoves Sam in the bathroom and turns on the warm water for him.

Dean moans and heads back to the car to grab his even more incapacitated friend. Cas doesn't even open his eyes, and Dean makes a mental note to place a trashcan beside his bed tonight. The journey back up to the room is unnaturally horrifying between his sore body and having to somehow hold another human being up when he's hurting badly himself. He strips Cas into boxers and waits impatiently for a tired Sam to open the door wearing a t-shirt and a ratty pair of shorts, his hair standing up in every direction and still soaking wet.

"Whoa," Sam says, pointing at his brother. "You look like a lobster."

"Gee, ya think?"

And then Sam doesn't utter another words and falls straight into bed. He's snoring within seconds.

Dean rolls his eyes and picks Cas back up, dragging him into the bathroom and setting him down on the shower floor. He is in desperate need of aloe and a shower himself, but he has to get the little brunette taken care of first. Cas's eyes pop open groggily while he's shampooing his hair. "Corndogs," he mumbles incoherently, and Dean's laughter hurts him. "Gotta get more corndogs." And then he's out again. The older Winchester dresses him in a pair of oversized boxers and towel dries his hair before dropping him into the bed opposite of Sam's.

Finally, it's his turn. The water hurts every single inch of his burned body, and he trembles violently through cleansing himself of the day. He had a shit ton of fun, and it was the best day he's had since he was about fourteen years old, but he really wishes he had put sunscreen on right about now. Both Cas and Sam did, and they're even tanner than he is. Jeez, he's freaking stupid. He gets out and bundles up in Sam's hoodie and a pair of flannel pajama pants, despite how achy, hot, and itchy his skin is beneath the clothing.

Both Sam and Cas are dead asleep when he removes himself from the bathroom. He collapses down next to Sam and grimaces when his baby brother immediately rolls over and wraps his arms around him, effectively making him the little spoon in this equation. Dean huffs and turns off the bedside lamp. Every part of his frail body is burning up, but he can't stay awake much longer. Soon, he's lulled to sleep by Sam's heartbeat pressed against his back.

* * *

_June 28, 2013_

Sam awakens at seven that evening, still feeling extremely tired. Cas is lounging on the bed beside his, munching on a bag of chips and quietly watching TV. The younger Winchester removes himself from around his big brother, instantly flabbergasted that Dean's wearing his grey hoodie and bundled beneath the hotel comforter. And that's when he realizes how hot his brother is beneath the touch of his open palm on top of his clothed back.

The younger Winchester hops out of bed, turns on the overhead light, and kneels down in front of the sleeping Dean. "Oh shit," he mumbles. Dean's face is scorched a deep red, and his skin is too hot. He watches him pry open his eyes and glare at him. "Why didn't you tell me you were burned this badly?" he asks. His only response is a shrug. "Dammit. We need to get you cooled down."

"Am cool, S'mmy," Dean says. "Too cold."

"Yeah, that's just the frickin' heatstroke talking. How do you feel?"

Dean's eyes close, but he keeps going. "Achy, and m' head hurs'. Threw up twice while you were sleepin'."

Fantastic.

Cas joins them moments later, face singed a little around the edges and smeared with Cheeto dust. "What's wrong?"

"Help me get him in the shower," is all Sam says.

The ex-angel doesn't ask anymore questions because he can realizes the sudden shift in the mood. Dean is quivering and burning up, and Cas bites his lip, wondering how he got sick. They remove him from his clothes and turn on the shower water as cold as it will go to lower his intensely high body temperature. Cas watches the blond Winchester struggle and wrap his arms around his scrawny, scarred legs and place his head in the middle.

"What happened?" the small brunette tries once again when he feels Sam will actually answer.

Sam pries his eyes off his overheated brother, who is trembling violently. "He's sick from being out in the sun for so long yesterday."

"I didn't know you could get sick from that," Cas states.

Sam nods. "Yeah. It's pretty dangerous. Me and you are okay, though. It's Dean we gotta worry about."

"Can hear you," Dean manages to say crankily through chattering teeth. He wants to fall back into bed, curl up on Sam, and go straight to sleep. His brother has always been his security blanket when he doesn't feel well, and this is the worst he's felt in ages. It's mainly so bad because of how much fun he had yesterday. Now, he has the memories of that great time to go with how terrible he feels the day after. This crap sucks.

Eventually, he finds himself cuddled back into bed, this time only wearing boxers and one of Sam's monstrous t-shirts. He is half asleep when Sam settles down next to him, re-wrapping his arms around his burnt to a crisp torso, a perfect re-image of last night. Cas instantly notes that he's left out, so he shuffles in on Dean's opposite side, allowing the young hunter to snuggle his overheated and singed face into his t-shirt.

"Goodnight, Dean."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Zana Zira! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	71. obsessedwithstabler

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you very much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

obsessedwithstabler requested: "I'd love to see a one-shot where Dean almost drowns, and Cas and Sam have to save him together. Then Dean gets sick as a result, and Cas and Sam both struggle with who should take care of him. Sam can be mad because he's always taken care of Dean, and Cas can be pissy because he wants to care for Dean due to their profound bond. And somewhere in there is a bit of Dean/Cas snuggling that could make Sam jealous because he's used to being the only one caring for Dean. Power struggle!" Let the power struggle commence!

* * *

obsessedwithstabler

* * *

_September 19, 2009 _

It's surprisingly chilly on this barely-summer-anymore evening. Dean throws on an undercoat over his red and grey flannel before tossing on his leather jacket, shivering lightly. Jeez. What is it, like, forty degrees out here or something? He isn't sure; all he knows is that this isn't cool. And neither is Sam's incessant snoring that he can hear even while rummaging through the trunk of his baby. He's packing a small duffel when a hand grabs his shoulder. Dean's heart instantly drops, but he turns with the hand, cocking his gun directly at whoever it is.

"Shit, Cas. You can't go sneaking up on guys like that!" he says, lowering the shotgun. His nerves are a bit frazzled, but he gets over it with ease. He has around three to four miniature heart attacks a day from doing this job, anyway. Cas stalks around to the other side of the car and points curiously at the still sleeping Sam. "We've been running ourselves into the ground in order to stop the Goddamned Apocalypse. Kid's gotta sleep sometime."

And it's true. Dean can pass with four or five hours every two nights, but Sam has never been like that, and he understands. His baby brother really does need seven or eight hours to function everyday, and he's ridiculously cranky, kind of like toddler cranky, when he doesn't get them. They were driving for nearly six on their way to this cemetery to dig up and salt and burn some bodies, so hopefully Sam will at least be able to help out.

If he had the heart to do it, he would have forced his brother to stay up with him, but he can't do that to him. Sam had climbed into the backseat less than twenty minutes into their journey here, curled up beneath the blanket from the trunk, used one of Dean's discarded jackets as a pillow, and immediately fell into a much deeper sleep than he hoped for. Having to wake up Sam really sucks because it just makes him feel bad every time, especially when he can sense the waves of exhaustion rolling off of him. He'll make sure he gets a good rest tonight, though.

"What're you doin' here anyway?" Dean asks.

Cas shrugs. "I'm not sure."

Dean's eyebrows rise. "Um, okay. Well, me and Sammy have some stuff we gotta take care of, so..." he says, motioning to the shovel in his hand.

The angel nods. "Yes, I am aware of what you two need to do. I think I will join you."

Dean points to his chest with his left hand. "You want to dig up bodies with us? You're a friggin' angel!"

"I am aware of that as well."

"Well, can't you just zap-dig them for us?" he asks, hopeful. If he could, all Dean would have to do is salt the damn things, drench them in lighter fluid, and drop in a lighter. Simple. That way, he can get Sam to a proper bed, and he will actually be able to get quite a few hours of sleep himself. Cas instantly looks confused, and he seems more rigid and stiff than usual. "Can you do this for us? Like the angel way?" he tries again.

Cas shakes his head. "I'm afraid not. But I will watch."

The older Winchester rolls his eyes. "Course you will." He closes the trunk, sets the packed duffel and shovel in the dirt, and opens up the door to the backseat. "Up and at 'em, Sammy," he says, shaking his brother's back. Sam somehow rolled over and curled himself in a tight ball, mouth wide open and drooling on to Dean's jacket. Damn, the kid must really be wiped out. "Sammy," he tries again, shaking him a bit harder, but not enough to hurt.

"What's goin' on?" Sam slurs, knuckling his eyes and stretching out in his seat. Crap, his back really hurts. It takes a second, but he realizes that they're finally at the cemetery for their next gig, and he has to get up. He sits up and puts his elbows on his knees, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Cold," he murmurs, noticing the frigid mid-September air creeping up on him. Dean extends his hand, and Sam accepts it, using his help t pull himself out of the car.

"You're gonna want this," Dean says, handing him a winter coat to go over his thick long sleeved shirt.

Sam shrugs it on and massages his hands together to warm up, blowing hot air into them. He doesn't understand why it's so cold outside, but he does know he doesn't like it. "What are you doing here?" he asks the minute he acknowledges their angel of the Lord on speed dial friend Castiel standing shoulder to shoulder with his older brother. He has no idea why he's here, and it's strange because he doesn't seem to need their help or vice versa.

"I am observing the natural aspects of supernatural hunters," is all he says.

"Right..."

"Dean says I can help dig up the bodies."

Sam and Dean exchange glances, but his big brother doesn't seem too effected by this situation, and it's just Cas, so he doesn't fret anymore about it. He stalks over the three graves they'll be destroying tonight, all with the last name Kingston. A mini family of ghosts. Great. Dean hands him a shovel, and Cas puts his hands in his trench coat pockets, literally observing their every move. Sam ignores him and begins to dig, still shivering just a bit.

The blond Winchester huffs and grumbles to himself as he sifts through the dirt, which is usually what he does. In a way, it's kind of like getting things off his chest, especially since he can barely hear the sound of his own voice over both his and Sam's shovels making contact with the ground. Suddenly, the air surrounding him turns ice cold, and he can start to see his breath with each ragid gasp he takes from exerting his permanently achy and tired lungs.

And, before he realizes anything else is going on, he's flung however many feet into the air. Jesus Christ. How many times is this going to happen to him when he just started the job? Every damn time. And then his body collides with something hard and wet, and he's sucked under water, and he can't breathe. His lungs fill rapidly with liquid, and he puffs his cheeks out, trying his best not to swallow. His vision begins to blur, and he can't swim his way to the surface, no matter how hard he kicks with his legs and pushes with his arms; he isn't moving anywhere.

Panic rises from the pit of his stomach and swells into his throat. God. Fuck. He can't breathe. There's no getting out of here, and he's going to die by drowning. Shit. Dean doesn't quite know why he isn't moving anywhere in the water. Hell, he didn't even know there was a lake or fucking ocean or whatever the hell this is here. It's like his body won't cooperate with him whatsoever, and he's left trying to keep himself afloat, even though he can feel himself losing his battle with consciousness. His last thoughts are of Sam.

Sam and Cas sprint wordlessly over to the lake neither of them knew was there, the same one where their brother and friend had been tossed into moments before. Shit. He really got thrown hard. Sam's heart is pounding massively into his chest as he bites the inside of his cheek. Fuck. Jesus. He needs to get him out of that water and fast. There he is! Sam spots a tiny slither of something near the edge of the lake and runs toward it.

"Help me get him!" he commands Cas, who nods.

The angel of the Lord isn't sure what worry exactly feels like, but he knows this is it. While he knows for certain Dean isn't going to die tonight, he does know that, with his powers severely diminished, he can't heal him from whatever injuries he may have sustained, and that makes him feel utterly terrible. The two of them grab ahold of one arm each and drag the unconscious Winchester out of the unnaturally cold September water.

Sam immediately lays him in the grass and begins to perform CPR. Cas holds his head steady in case he regains consciousness and begins to flail in every direction. Eventually, water erupts from Dean's mouth, and he coughs. And now Cas is sure that this is what relief is like because he's so happy that his best friend is breathing right now. He lifts his head on to his bent knees and helps him roll it to the side so he doesn't choke any further.

The younger Winchester quickly assess for wounds. Dean's got a few nasty cuts that may require stitches near his jaw and on his chin, and there are purple and red splotches already beginning to form on his face and neck. "Shh, Deano. It's okay," he says when his brother attempts to sit up from Cas's lap and walk it off like nothing's wrong. "I gotta see if you hit your head." He sees no signs of head trauma, even though the glazed over look in his eyes is scaring him.

"Is he okay?" Cas asks. He knows nothing about medicine since he normally can automatically heal people. He just touches a finger to their forehead and goes about his business. With his grace dropping lower and lower on the scale everyday, he can barely heal himself when he gets beat up or thrown around, much like Dean in this instance. Sam nods, but he doesn't say anything else. He just hovers closer to his brother, even though Cas is trying to help as well.

"Okay," Sam says. "I'm gonna carry him to the car. Can you finish up the job?"

The angel shakes his head. "I do not know of the proper disposal of bodies."

Sam rolls his eyes and sighs heavily, realizing it would take less time for him to do it alone rather than have to explain the process to a clueless angel. "Get him to the car," he says. He pats Dean's knee before he jogs away to the three tombstones and begins to work. From a distance, he makes out Cas lifting a sopping wet Dean into his arms, and he can practically hear his brother's incessant and irrational complaining and whining from here.

"Don' need t'be carried," the human in his arms says, even though he barely has any energy inside him to fight. Cas may be half-human at this point, but he can still read into people, and Dean is clearly suffering from a massive case of exhaustion accompanied by the chills. He gets him into the backseat of the Impala and turns on the car with the keys he finds in the older Winchester's jeans pocket, even though he has no clue how to drive.

Sam returns moments later, greasy and smelling like gasoline. Dean is trembling to death in the backseat, breathing hot air down the front of his shirt, which he's holding out with incredibly shaky hands. "Cas! You were supposed to change him!" He doesn't mean to make it sound like Dean is a baby because he sees his brother's glare out of the corner of his eye, but Cas is just sitting in the passenger seat, staring off into space while he struggles.

"You said nothing about changing him!" the angel retorts back.

Sam shakes his head. He grabs a huge towel and begins to remove each soaking wet layer from his brother one by one. Tears swell in the corners of Dean's eyes, which in turn makes his own eyes begin to water viciously. Dammit. He ignores how much his head is spinning and dries off his brother and the seat completely. Next, he gathers up new boxers, an under set of light grey thermals, wool socks, black sweatpants, and his thickest hoodie.

Getting Dean dressed is a huge problem in itself. Now, his brother is shutting down from exhaustion and probable hypothermia, and tears are leaking down his bruised cheeks even though he's not exactly crying. Sam shrugs off his own coat and wraps it around Dean's shoulder and then places the blanket over his legs, tucking him in tightly. Cas gets out of the car, shrugs off his trench coat and suit jacket and hands them to Sam, who nods gratefully.

Once Dean is bundled heavily into the backseat, Cas climbs into the middle seat and lets the older Winchester lay his head on his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to share some heat. He feels the blond begin to relax a bit more with each passing second until he is entirely conked out, mouth wide open and snoring ever so quietly. He feels bad for his friend, but he vows to take care of him. He just didn't know he was supposed to change him.

A pit forms in Sam's stomach as he watches Dean snuggle against Cas for comfort. That should be him in the backseat and making sure he's warm and okay, but, of course, he has to drive. He's the _only_ one who has ever gotten to take care of his brother. Dean wouldn't even let Dad or Bobby touch him when he was under the weather or hurt or whatever; it was only Sam who could help once he eventually wore himself down enough.

But, he gulps and keeps driving.

* * *

It's nearly an hour later when they arrive at their motel. Dean is completely and totally passed out against Cas. He moved just enough to curl his face into the angel's lap and spread out across the backseat of the Impala entirely. Thankfully, Cas isn't able to lift him up since he's kind of smashed beneath the hunter, so Sam takes his chance to help out his big brother and carries him bridal style into the warm room. Dean is still shivering violently.

"Ears..." Dean mumbles before rubbing them harshly. Water drips on to his fingers, and he can't help but grimace. His ears feel like they've not only been lit with a torch, but also two sizes too big. His body is nothing but a ball of aches once Sam settles him down on to the bed, dressed in heavy layers. He curls into a tight ball beneath the comforter and yearns for his baby brother to lay with him until he feels better. That's what Sam always does.

But Sam is busy setting up the motel room. He gets out the humidifier and places it by Dean's bedside, knowing full well that him admitting already that he isn't feeling that great is a terrible sign. He'll probably be dealing with an incredibly ill and cranky brother in the morning. He grabs a bottle of water, blue Gatorade, NyQuil, and Tylenol, putting them on the kitchen table while he heads outside to get their duffels in order to change into dry clothes himself.

The instant he makes it back through the door and closes it, Sam drops the bags in disbelief. The angel has effectively cuddled Dean into his chest, and his brother is snoring his ass off, despite not having taken any medicine. _Are you kidding me?_ Sam's heart plummets into the pit of his stomach, and he visibly sulks, sitting down dejectedly at the kitchen table and fiddling with the pills his brother was supposed to consume before he fell asleep.

Ever since they were kids, it's been an unspoken law that Sam takes care of Dean and Dean takes care of Sam. Dad was never really part of the equation, but he would lend a hand whenever he could. They both have their sick and hurt brother routines down pat, and Cas being here really throws his off. It's like his big brother sinks in closer to the angel when he's around than him, and it really hurts his feelings. And he doesn't even care about how girly he sounds.

Instead, Sam just changes his clothes and climbs into bed. Alone.

* * *

_September 20, 2009 _

The instant Sam wakes up to hear his brother's harsh, wet coughs, he makes his move. Before the angel can comfort him in any way, shape, or form, Sam jumps out of bed and rubs Dean's back. He's burning up with a high fever beneath his gentle touch and makes no effort to fight back. He practically crumbles into his baby brother's touch, and the younger Winchester can't help but smile. And then Cas sits up and starts to massage his shoulder.

"Stop it!" Sam says, holding his brother closer.

Cas looks genuinely and honestly confused. "I am not doing anything wrong."

Sam rolls his eyes. Of course he's doing something wrong. He's the one who is supposed to have his brother's back, sick or not. Sam grew up with Dean constantly being around and breathing down his neck, and, now that he's old enough to realize it, he wouldn't have it any other way. But then Cas comes along and screws everything up and somehow makes Dean gravitate toward him after only knowing him for a year, while he's known Sam for twenty-six years.

"Just... Just let me watch him."

"I am the one who raised him from Hell, and you weren't exactly the most helpful when you were drinking gallons of demon blood. He prayed to me every night you went out with Ruby, and I comforted him in ways you'll never understand. We do share a profound bond, and I intend on helping my friend feel better whilst he is ill."

Sam's eyes widen, and he immediately loosens his grip on Dean, who is slumped on to his chest and has retreated back to La La Land. Dean _prayed?_ He's never known his brother under any circumstances to resort to a level of faith to keep him grounded. And he prayed to Cas because he was the only one who would listen. Sam is trying to put the demon blood thing in the past, but something tells him it hurt his brother a hell of a lot more than what he originally thought.

"I-I..." he stammers nervously. He glances down at his big brother, the one who has kept him safe his entire life. When Dean was only six years old, he used to stay up with him at night while he was sick and make him soup, even though he was too short to use the microwave, even if he stood on a chair. He somehow always made everything work and made sure Sam got what he needed. And if he needs help from someone else, he should accept it.

Cas shakes his head and stops Sam. "I do not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I understand that Dean is your brother. I could never replace that." He's fully aware of the profound bond the Winchester boys share. He's been watching over Dean since the moment he was born that blizzard-filled night in late January, and he will never stop being the guardian angel he was assigned to be. Sometimes, Dean needs help in other ways, though.

Instead of using his words, Sam carefully hoists his sleeping brother on to Cas's chest and helps the angel lay down slowly.

* * *

_September 21, 2009_

"I think you have an ear infection, buddy," Sam says, turning off his penlight and sitting down on the edge of his brother's bed. Dean is still snuggled into Cas's chest, quietly watching TV out of the corner of his eye. His cough has only worsened as the past two days have passed, and he's leaking a heavy amount of gunk out of his ears. It's a good thing he hasn't tried standing yet because he would probably flop all over the place.

Dean shrugs. "Be 'lright."

"Yeah, I know you will."

Sam goes to move into the kitchen to start some research on home remedies for ear infections when Dean grabs his shirtsleeve with a clammy, hot hand. "Don't go," he slurs, giving him a half-lopsided grin. Cas nods in approval, and Sam clicks off the bedside lamp, curling down next to his brother and sandwiching Dean in the middle. This time, the older Winchester rolls on his side and smushes his face into Sam's arm while Cas wraps his arms around his torso.

He's asleep witin seconds, warm and toasty between his brothers.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, obsessedwithstabler! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	72. Dementra (III)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! I really do appreciate it! =)

Dementra requested: "How about writing about a time after Mary's death when Dean is still not talking? Maybe Dean gets sick or is simply refusing to talk despite John's best efforts. And Sam is a somewhat fussy baby, like most babies are, but Dean is a good brother. Either way, John is stressed out and doesn't really know what to do. He wishes Mary is there, but she isn't." Wow, this one is really deep. I haven't written from John's POV before either, which will be interesting.

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Dementra (III)

* * *

_December 22, 1983_

His baby boy hasn't talked in fifty days. John has been keep diligent track, waiting patiently for Dean to talk. Sometimes, he catches him opening his mouth, and his heart pounds wickedly in his chest, but it's typically just so he can yawn. For a nearly five year old boy, a month and twenty days of radio silence is practically an eternity. He's at the point where he's forgotten how excitedly and quickly Dean used to talk or that tiny, barely noticeable lisp he had.

Every night, he prays to God that he will wake up, and Mary will be lying there next to him, arm draped over his side and holding him close. God. He was so fucking happy. Why hadn't he been there to protect her? Now, he sulks daily and drinks too much beer while he struggles to communicate with his PTSD-mute son and try to connect on a deeper level with his seven month old baby who will never know what it's like to have a mother.

And he thinks about that a lot, especially for Dean. Sammy won't get a chance to meet and remember his Mary, but Dean. Goddammit, Dean fucking _knows_, and, each time he realizes that, it kills him a bit more inside. The anguish and pure terror of his four year old boy's face on that frigid November night is permanently imprinted in his brain, and no amount of booze will let him forget. Sammy lost Mary too, but Dean is going to have to live with _knowing_ for the rest of his life. And John wishes he could take that sorrow away from his young son.

But he can't. He's stuck in a reality where baby Sammy screams and wails unless Dean is holding him close and where Dean won't dare utter a word. John can't convince himself to stop trying to have little conversations with him because he won't be the type of dad who gives up. He wants to make everything better for his little boys, and the one thing he can do is fucking murder the thing that burned his wife on the ceiling. He's been studying, yes, and he knows all about Mary Campbell-Winchester's mysterious past with the supernatural.

So, now he reads every lore book he can get his hands on. He spends hours long after the boys have went to bed researching and planning and calculating his every move. John now keeps a journal, which he used to think was a tad on the pansy side, but no one is here to judge him anymore. Mary would make everything better. He remembers how her voice sounds and her touch and her smell and her hair and every-fucking-thing about her.

John is in the middle of scribbling notes on a page of his leather-bound journal when he hears a cough. It's tiny, and he wouldn't have noticed it if it weren't for the silence of the room. Sammy fell asleep nearly an hour ago for his nap, and Dean has been quietly coloring in a beat up, hand-me-down book that he found in the drawers of this shitty motel. John immediately hops to his feet to investigate the sound. Sammy is on his stomach, surrounded by pillows so he doesn't roll off the bed; he knows the cough didn't come from him.

Which just leaves Dean. Sweet baby Dean. John remembers bringing him home for the first time and talking the newborn's ear off quietly about how much fun they'll have when he's older. And then Dean grew like a weed and adorned Mary's blond hair and green eyes and dimples. Soon, he was throwing the ball around with a toddler outside, and Dean hardly ever missed a catch. His son was born to be a baseball star, and John was convinced of that.

And he clearly remembers Mary's belly growing at an enormous rate the second time around and having to prepare his tenacious and actually _loud _and _vibrant_ Dean about how he was going to be a big brother. They were planning to stop after Sammy was born and almost named him Jacob, but he just looked like a Sammy when he was born. He remembers his precious Dean waddling up to the crib with his thumb stuck in his mouth and staring intensely into Sammy's eyes.

Dean loves Sammy to pieces. He always had. While other kids struggled getting accustomed to their little siblings, Dean flourished. The blond boy would talk Sammy's ear off for hours on end, reminding John so much of himself. Compared to where they are now, John wishes there was some kind of deal he could make to take the three of them back to that house in Lawrence, Kansas. Dean could be a professional baseball player, and baby Sammy could be a doctor or a lawyer because, let's face it, his son is bound for greatness with how advanced he is.

Instead of dreaming any further, John lays down on his stomach on the floor, mimicking his son and grabbing a crayon. Dean instantly stops drawing and looks at his father before he coughs again into the crook of his elbow. Jeez. Mary started the whole manners thing really young and had already explained to Dean that he couldn't get baby Sammy sick, so he had to wash his hands and wipe away the germs, which the four year old was all about.

John feels his heart being tugged in every direction at this moment. Part of him wants to scoop his baby boy up and hold him against his chest until he falls asleep, and the other part of him wants to use this as a prompt to get Dean to talk. Even if it's just one word, it will make all the difference. At least that way John will know his son hasn't turned into a shell of a person and can actually vocalize what he wants and how he feels.

"Dean," he says softly. The four year old jumps. "Buddy, are you feeling okay?"

The blond boy stares and doesn't say a word, but seems puzzled by the question.

"Does your throat hurt?"

He nods, pointing at his chest as well. The last part is no surprise because Dean was diagnosed with asthma at age three after nearly going into respiratory arrest at pre-school. John cut out of the garage parking lot and almost crashed his beloved Impala trying to race to the hospital. Once he was there, he was informed that his baby boy would be asthmatic most likely for the rest of his life, which was caused by his six week prematurity and a string of childhood illnesses.

And then John takes note of the slightly flushed cheeks and the light wheeziness to his breathing. He grabs the inhaler he always keeps close by and hands it to Dean, knowing full well his son is independent and can do it himself. Even though Dean doesn't talk, John can't help but admire him. Most four year olds are bathed every night by their parents, but his son has been doing it alone and adamant about it since three and a half, just a few months before Sammy was born.

John wishes and prays that he could get his son to open up, but, for right now, he doesn't want to push too hard. The family counselor they're required to see once a week told him that this is the most crucial time in Dean's young life. Forcing him to talk will end disastrously and won't allow him to cope the way he feels the need to. Once Dean is ready to speak, he will. God, he's heard that line so fucking much. None of these people have mute kids, do they?

And, while it is massively frustrating, he's trying to right by his boys. If he has to wait for Dean, then he will, even if it kills him to wait around. John takes this current opportunity to grab his son some clean pajamas, which is just a pair of flannel pants that fall far past his feet and one of John's huge grey t-shirts, and hand them to him. He points to the shower, and Dean nods, heading in to turn the water on. Sometimes, Dean will bathe and relax with Sammy, but, since Sammy's still thankfully asleep, he opts for a shower instead. Once he's out, John will give him a dose of kids' medicine and tuck him in next to his baby brother.

His son's independence and strong nature will never cease to amaze him.

* * *

_December 23, 1983_

It's two days before Christmas, Dean is sick, Sammy won't stop crying, and John is losing his mind. Currently, he has Sammy cradled against his chest and is rocking him back and forth as he paces the tiny motel room. "Shh... Shh..." he whispers, rubbing his soft baby skin gently, praying that he would stop. Between Dean's temp and Sammy's incessant sobbing, he doesn't know what to do anymore. Mary would know, but she's not here; she'll never be here.

He nearly jumps out of his boots when a feels a tug at the bottom of his shirt. His four year old is standing there, cheeks flushed and hair standing up in every direction. The grey t-shirt is sagging completely off of his left shoulder, and he wishes Dean would say _something_. However, he does motion for John to put Sammy down on the bed. He's all out of options, his head is pounding relentlessly, and he'll try just about anything at this point, so he obliges.

In a heartbeat, Dean is there, taking off Sammy's onesie with the smell of fresh soap from the bathroom on his tiny hands. Sammy wails on, big fat tears streaming down his chubby, red cheeks. Soon, the blond boy has removed the diaper, cleaned his butt, put the powder on, and strapped in a new one for the baby. The bald infant's crying stops, and Dean carefully picks him up, rubbing his back before handing him back to John to the best of his ability, his eyes screaming "I would hold him, but I don't want to get him sick."

Dean has always been a good big brother, like he mentioned before. He shares his toys and food, allows Sammy to slobber and drool and chew all over him, and can even beat John at a diaper-changing race. He just understands this plump of chubbiness in his arms, and he can't help but smile. His son: the baseball extraordinaire and baby whisperer. What a title. Sammy almost instantly quiets down in his arms, the crying replaced by coos and a few smiles.

John is about to thank the boy for his help when he notices that he has curled back into bed, facing the wall. The tall man puts the baby on the bed and re-surrounds him with pillows (he should really get a crib soon) and sits down with Dean. And that's when he notices the tears and wheezing and trembling. Instantly, he picks him up and holds him close, and, for once, Dean doesn't try to fight him. He melts into his father's touch.

"Oh, buddy," he says. "You're burning up."

Dean makes no effort to squirm away or respond. In fact, he ends up wrapping his scrawny arms around John's neck and weeping openly into him. John rubs his back and squeezes tighter, but not hard enough to hurt the small boy. Jeez. Why can't he tell me what's going on? Losing Mary was excruciating, but he can't lose Dean too. The silence is killing him, but this is what has to happen. John's screwed a lot of things up in his life and will inevitably screw up countless more times, but he will not let his baby boy slip through the cracks right now.

The sobs and hiccups grow fewer and further between with each passing second until Dean gives in with exhaustion completely. John doesn't let go. He can't. These moments are too rare, and watching his son pour out his emotions lets him know that he's still in there. He feels and understands and retains and learns and is trying to communicate. And at this moment, John glances over at Sammy, who is still bright eyed and happy. He vows to make this Christmas a good one for his sons, even if it breaks his heart in the process.

* * *

_December 24, 1983_

Luckily, the lady at the front desk has packaged cookies that she lets him have. He turns on the stove the instant he re-enters the motel room, where Dean and Sammy are fast asleep on opposite beds since Dean has told him with his hands, eyes, and facial movements that he doesn't want to get him sick too. His oldest is still running a fever and has a cough that requires his inhaler a bit more than usual, but he seems to have a bit more energy today.

While John lets the Santa Claus shaped cookies bake, he wraps presents silently as possible. He got them from the gas station next door, even though every part of him knew leaving his sons in a sketchy motel room alone wasn't a good idea. But he had to. He wants Sammy and Dean to have gifts to open on their once family-oriented holiday. Plus, it's baby Sammy's very first Christmas ever; he can't just not buy them presents. Mary would brain him for that in the afterlife.

It's nearly midnight when the cookies come out perfectly and chocolately, just the way he knows Dean likes them. He feels bad because Sammy can't eat them, but he will get his chance once he grows in teeth. John wants to make a tradition, a new one, one with his two boys and himself. He'll never miss a single Christmas and will always take the time out to talk to his sons. He doesn't want to be a deadbeat Dad just because his wife died.

* * *

_December 25, 1983_

"Merry Christmas, Deano!" John semi-shouts excitedly, hoisting his four year old out of bed and carrying him in the opposite arm of Sammy, plopping him down gently at the kitchen table. Dean's eyes light up the minute he sees the chocolate chip cookies, and he eyes John happily. "Go ahead. Eat up." Still, though, he hesitantly grabs a cookie, munching it and swishing it around in his mouth, gulping down a big drink of ice cold milk after.

With a gurgling Sammy still in one arm, John grabs the three presents he wrapped for Dean last night and places them on the table, sitting across from his young son. Dean's eyebrows rise like he has absolutely no idea what to do, even though he's had previous Christmas's before. The blond doesn't even reach for the gifts and just looks at John, whose only response is a bright smile. It's Christmas, and his son has been so previously traumatized that it's like raising a different kid. The boy who used to live and breathe baseball won't talk.

John pushes the presents toward him, and Dean bites his lower lip before taking one. He unwraps it carefully and meticulously, grinning once he sees the Hot Wheels car for him to roll around with on the floor. Along with baseball, Dean inherited John's passion for cars, whether it be fixing them or looking at them. The other presents, one of which is a baseball glove and ball, are unwrapped in a flash, littering the floor with red and green striped paper.

Sammy has now conked out on his shoulder, and John watches as Dean gets out of the chair and slowly starts to lower himself to the floor. But, before he does, he grabs his father's leg and hugs it tightly. "Thank you, Daddy," is all he says before he lets it go, dropping on the carpet to play with his new toy car. And, if John's heart could literally be mended back together, this is how it happens. Dean _talked._ He actually _spoke_.

It may have only been three words, but, to John Winchester, it makes all the difference.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, Dementra! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	73. LadyWallace

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the brilliantly wonderful television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so very much for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! =)

LadyWallace requested: "I had an idea for a story (set season 9 so it's Human Cas) where all three of them get injured on a hunt and can't take care of themselves (like one has a hurt arm, one a hurt leg, or whatever), and so they have to take care of each other, and whatever hilarity of fluffiness you wish to add ensues." Aw! I can seriously imagine this happening on the show, and I wish it would! It would be so neat to see how they all take care of each other! AU!

Last scene may be massively OOC, but, hey, Cas has to have a roll in this.

* * *

LadyWallace

* * *

_April 8, 2014_

"Jesus Christ, Dean! Are you trying to break my other leg?"

"It's not even broken, you big baby."

"Guys, I think my nose is leaking brain matter again."

The Winchester brothers exchange worried glances, and Dean helps lower his injured brother to the muddy ground, cradling his dominant arm toward his bruised chest. He carefully touches the ex-angel's bloody wound on the side of his head with two fingers, wincing as blood flows openly through them. Shit. He really conked his noggin hard. Dean chews on his bottom lip and stares over at Sam, who is stiffly sitting there cringing every few seconds.

He has to do something. This situation is bad. Really bad. All three of them are hurt, but it's obvious that Cas and Sam have it the worst. It was supposed to be simple, something that even the tiny brunette who believes his nose is letting his mind seep through it and can barely drive could accomplish. They've been trying to introduce their newly human friend to hunting little by little, giving him the same slow exposure Dad made sure to give Sammy when he was younger.

But this werewolf hunt didn't turn out in their favor. Winchester luck. Cas, being the easy target he is, was almost instantly flung into a tree, bashing his skull on the bark. Next was Sam, who was reloading his gun behind a bush, that was picked up by the collar of his shirt and then promptly tossed way across the field they were doing their fighting at. Of course, Dean was the last man standing, but he screamed "Sammy!" apparently at the wrong time and was thrown on to the ground. The werewolf then promptly decided to step on his shoulder and collarbone area. On the way down, he was sure he felt his wrist pop too.

Thankfully, his aim with his left hand is also pretty fucking awesome because Dad taught him to always be prepared, so he was able to withdraw another gun tucked in the back of his jeans and shoot that hairy bastard with a silver bullet right in the chest. Stubborn bitch went down hard and fast. Dean never bothered to worry about himself since he couldn't hear either Cas or Sam, and they were hundreds of feet apart. The older Winchester went immediately for his brother.

Which is how they ended up here with all three of them in the mud and clearly hurt. Neither Cas nor Sam can walk, and, luckily, Dean's legs and head weren't injured, or at least not that he can feel right now. He will admit that Cas's likely and _first_ ever concussion is massively urgent, despite the fact that they can't go to the hospital. Sam, on the other hand, has broken his leg twice before, and Dean already knows it isn't broken. He isn't sure what it is at this point, but he can breathe and bare a little bit of weight to walk, which are clear signs it isn't.

"Alright," the blond says, clearing his throat after. "Sammy, I'm gonna take Cas to the car first."

Sam nods, but looks down at his lap, twiddling his thumbs. Cas is Dean's best friend, but _nothing,_ and he means _nothing,_ comes in front of his baby brother. But he is being practical here, and it's not like the walk back is going to talk that long. Still, Sam's face is a mixture of hurt and fear, and Dean can't stand it. He bends down delicately and briefly hugs the thirty year old hunter who is acting all of five right now. He whispers that he'll be back soon.

He receives another nod before he goes to pick Cas up, which just about makes him throw up. Bile rises up the back of his throat, and he has to force it back down. The pain shredding through his right arm is intense and almost comically unbelievable. Sometimes, he happens to forget the Winchesters are cursed and that they bring everyone down on their sinking ship with them, which, in this case, is reference to Cas, who has his head lolled on to Dean's sweaty chest.

Dean pants out loud, but groans internally, not wanting to seem like a big bitch. But his arm and shoulder are currently being lit on fire, and it isn't exactly the best feeling in the world. His mission is to get his brother and best friend safely back to the bunker and assess their wounds, and that's what he has to do, especially since he's the only legs of this operation. Finally, they reach the Impala, and he somehow manages to open the door with his right hand, even though his fingers won't cooperate, and his entire arm is spasming violently.

He quickly wraps a thick, tan towel around Cas's head, which rapidly begins to soak through with blood. Damn. He really needs some stitches. First, he has to get Sam though; then he can play doctor. The ex-angel is unconscious and doesn't seem to be responding to stimuli. Dean has to force his emotions deep down into the pit of his stomach, otherwise Sam will be stuck in the mud for the rest of his life. He spints back to his baby brother.

"Cas okay?" Sam asks weakly.

Dean nods, but then shrugs, unsure of how he's supposed to think at the moment. He carefully hoists Sam up, and, for a moment, he's supporting all of his weight. Jeez. Sam's, like, thirty-something pounds heavier than him. His chest squeezes out the last of its air, and he coughs loudly, gripping at his chest with his one free hand, which happens to be his injured on. Sam wraps around him like a koala and hops back to the car, his left leg sticking in the air behind him. Dean grunts and keeps pushing on, even though the pain is slipping into the unbearable category.

The older Winchester carefully slips his brother into the backseat and places Cas's head in his lap, pillowing it with one of his discarded soft coats. He watches Sam extend his leg out as fully as he can at six foot four. He doesn't think his brother is concussed, but he has some cuts and bruises that will need to be tended to later. But Cas... Jeez, the kid's bleeding uncontrollably. Maybe he is leaking out brain matter. Dean's dominant arm isn't cooperating very well, and Sam must realize the struggle because he takes the needle, thread, and whiskey from him and begins to individually stitch the gash on Cas's head closed, holding a miniature flashlight in between his upper and lower teeth. Dean nods in appreciation because there's no way he could do that.

With Sam taking care of the bleeding, his next priority is to get them the hell out of here and back to the bunker. Sam needs his leg wrapped rightly and to get fitted with his height for the crutches he'll undoubtedly be using for the next few weeks, and Cas needs a freaking brain trauma assessment. Dean doesn't bother adding his own injuries and worries to the list. His only concern is flying his brothers back home. He peels out of the field and doesn't look back.

* * *

Cas awakens in a place where it's pitch black. _Am I blind? Please don't let me be blind._ Ever since he became human, he hasn't been overly fond of the dark. Of course, he would never tell Sam or Dean this because they're hunters; they, specifically Dean, would laugh at him for hours on end. He's an ex-angel and has gone through the creation of time and humans and existence in general, but he's frightened by the dark. There's something so mysterious and unknown.

He doesn't particularly feel that well. His body is cold and achy, despite the fact that he's bundled beneath something warm and comforting. The worst part is easily his head, which is throbbing persistently. A few weeks ago, he had a migraine, which Sam said was from too much stress, and that's kind of what this pain feels like. More than anything, Cas would love for it to stop and leave him alone. What happened to him? How did he get here? And, better yet, where is he?

In order to find out the answers to these inquires, he carefully sits up. His head is spinning rapidly, and his eyes can't focus, even in the darkness. Crap. He reaches around blindly to see what his hands come into contact with when he feels a chain-like texture, which he then proceeds to pull down on. Room. He's in his room. At the bunker. Okay, so that means Sam and Dean are at least around here somewhere. Perhaps they will know what happened to him.

So he stands up, which is a massive mistake in itself. Why does his head hurt so much? He touches a delicate finger to where the main source of the pounding is coming from. He winces and cringes and recoils at the touch. Something... pokey and weird is on his head. Cas really needs to talk to the Winchester brothers. He opens his bedroom door slowly, and each step down the hall hurts more than the last. Nausea bubbles in the pit of his stomach.

He finds the boys in the living area of the Batcave, which is what Dean calls it. Sam is balancing himself on one leg, holding up his body weight with a crutch beneath each armpit, and tending to his brother. The ex-angel hears a distinct popping noise and then watches Dean double over, holding on to his shoulder. He immediately goes to them as fast as possible, but he's stopped by the vomit that's creeping up his throat.

"Whoa, Cas! Are you okay?"

But then he promptly bends over and harshly throws up an ocean of red and orange from his spaghetti at lunch, chunks splattering all over the concrete floor. His stomach burns and churns, and there are tears spilling over his flushed cheeks. Cas gags and hiccups, dropping on to his knees and finishing the job. He places both hands in his mess, but he doesn't even care. Help. He needs help. It's like his belly won't cooperate with him anymore.

"Easy does it, man," he hears one of them say, but he isn't sure which brother it's coming from. "Help me with him." Cas, once he's done getting sick, out of pure instinct, cradles his head in his hands, which are slathered in puke. The smell so close to his nose makes him force down another bile. He feels himself being hoisted up, and his legs will barely move while he struggles to make it to wherever he's going. He just wants to go straight back to sleep.

"Dean, be careful with your arm!"

"Shut up, Sam. Kinda hard to hold him up with only one."

The only thing keeping Cas calm and from losing it again is hearing his best friends bicker back and forth. His butt makes contact with something hard and cool; he assumes it's the toilet. His head... It's killing him. There has never been anything more excruciatingly painful that he can recall in his existence as a human. Cas's mouth is dry, and his throat is scratchy and sore, and his stomach feels hollow. He is too tired to do anything himself.

And then the next thing he feels are his clothes being removed from him. The brothers help him into a warm spray of running water, and Cas tries to think about how much he loves showers. He loves choosing different shampoos and body washes and enjoys the peaceful sensation that swells over him, but the best part is singing his heart out until the point that, on occasion, he exits with little to no voice. But this isn't the kind of shower he wants to stay in for long.

The water does nothing to sooth his aching head, and he's more than thankful when they somehow remove him and change his clothes.

"Are you serious?"

"What, dude?"

"Your freaking collarbone is broken, and you want to try to lift him?"

"Havin' a hard time seein' what else I'm supposed to do! He's deadweight, man, and you can't hurt your leg anymore."

"You're not even wearing a sling yet. Just... chill out. I can get him back to his room."

Cas tries to fight and protest, saying that he doesn't need any help, but his voice isn't working properly. He doesn't even feel words forming on his lips. But, Dean and Sam are both injured themselves, and he can't remember how any of it happened. Sam has a hurt leg, and Dean's broken the bone near his shoulder. He wants to help. He needs to help them. But, at this point, he can't even open his eyes. Sleep. Sleep. He needs to sleep.

"I'm gonna kill you, Sammy," is the last thing he hears before he's tucked into bed.

* * *

Sam's leg isn't broken. He figures he has a couple of badly torn muscles and must have bruised the hell out of the bone, but he can put weight on it if he absolutely needs to. Right now, he isn't concerned about himself. Cas has a severe concussion, and Dean's right arm and ribs are screwed to hell. He'll barely let Sam touch him at all, even though he's just trying to help. Currently, his older brother is cradling his arm to his chest, watching TV out of the corner of his eye.

The younger Winchester has a sling in his hand as he crutches over to his brother, sitting down on the leather couch next to him, stretching out his leg. Dean's attention doesn't waver from some cooking show he's barely paying attention to in the first place, clearly trying pretty hard to maintain his macho bravado. He found the sling, which wraps around the opposite shoulder and then clips around the back for ultimate protection, in the Men of Letter's medical room. And Dean's going to wear it whether he thinks he needs to or not.

"Don't come any closer with that thing," he says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "You need to let me put this on you."

"Why? What's the point?"

"Are you kidding me? Please just wear it... for me," he adds at the end. Each and every time he says that, he always gets his way. It's been like that since they were kids. Sam has learned over the years to never say it unless he's dead serious about wanting Dean to take some medicine or go to the hospital or, in this case, put on a sling. He watches his big brother twitch and scrub his uninjured hand down his stubbly face, sighing heavily.

Dean shakes his head but still says, "okay."

Sam smiles and gently coaxes his sore arm into it, noting the look of instant ease swelling over his cheeks. "You want to go lay down?"

"Don't think I can move."

"What? Why?"

"Ribs. Head... Arm."

Sam decides to take immediate action. Dean's going to take some painkillers and sleep this off. He isn't concussed; the only one who is is Cas. But he needs sleep because he's running on fumes, shivering and shaking next to him. Sam is in desperate want of resting too, so they are going to turn in for the night. He gets himself up on the crutches and extends a hand out to his brother. Dean looks at it hesitantly at first, but then holds on tightly with his left.

"Let's get some sleep."

* * *

_April 10, 2014_

It's been two days since their werewolf catastrophe, and all three of them are beginning to get better. Cas can actually walk around now, but he has to use Sam and Dean as support when he wants to get from room to room. The swelling in Sam's lower leg has decreased exponentially and doesn't ache and throb anywhere near as much as before. And Dean's collarbone is healing nicely, especially thanks to the magnificent sling Sam forced him to wear.

Currently, the ex-angel is sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep and rolled on to his stomach. Snores fill the living room area of the bunker, and Dean can't help but chuckle quietly at his friend. Sam is sitting at the kitchen/research table and reading a novel; to be honest, the older Winchester is grateful he isn't searching for any form of a hunt. That's the last thing they need right now. Dean is in the kitchen, stirring tomato soup and finishing up the grilled cheeses.

He piles the sandwiches on to a plate, where there are six in total. Dean doesn't anticipate Cas will eat more than one, but he doesn't know how hungry he may be since he's barely touched anything he's made in two days. He figures Sam will eat two, and he will definitely devour two. It's hard for his baby brother to maneuver around on crutches long enough to cook, so he takes on this responsibility, despite his sore arm and ribs.

Dean doesn't mind, though. He never has. He's been taking care of his entire family, plus Cas, for years upon years, and it's just who he is. Dean grabs the plate and shuffles in the room, setting it down the middle. He then goes to retrieve the pot of soup and three bowls. Next, he helps the newly awaken Cas to the table, helping prop him up so he doesn't fall over. And then he sits down, glancing around at his best friend and brother to make sure they're taken care of.

He goes to take a bite of the soup, but his left hand is more uncooperative than his right at this point. Yes, he can shoot the hell out of a gun or slice off a head with his left hand, but he can't eat or write or do anything _normal_ with his opposite hand; he's not that talented. He can't even get the freaking soup to stay nestled in the spoon, much less get it to his mouth without dribbling and spilling it all over himself. Jeez, what the hell is he supposed to do?

"I will help you, Dean," he hears Cas say from next to him.

"Whoa, Cas. What do you mean?"

And then he watches his friend grab the spoon and hold it to his lips. He doesn't know what to do. He... He's Dean freaking Winchester. He can't be fed by a massively concussed ex-angel of the Lord with his baby brother watching. He would rather die. Scratch that last part. But he would rather be doing something, _anything,_ than this. Sweat begins to form on his hairline, and he's so nervous to accept this level of help that it's making him sick to his stomach.

"Dean," Sam says, eyeing him.

And so he takes the slurp of soup and waits patiently for Cas to feed him more.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, LadyWallace! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	74. Tia (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the amazingly brilliant television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for favoriting, following, reviewing, requesting, and reading! =)

Here I am currently avoiding studying for finals and writing a paper that's due tomorrow. I'm so behind on writing these that I'm actually writing it the day before, which rarely happens to me. I typically write these any time I'm free (which isn't that often, but, hey, it gets done) and tend to write two to three of them, which stacks up for days when I'm busy. Now, it's April 30, and this one is to be posted on May 1. Jeez, I'm really slacking, haha.

School is almost over though! May 8 is the day I leave to go back home, so I know I'll be posting that chapter either ridiculously early in the morning or later in the afternoon, both of which are uncommon times for me. But don't worry. I swear I will try to update daily. Right now, though, things are hectic with finals and papers and a bunch of boring school crap that I'm too tired to deal with, haha. Thank you all for sticking with me and continuously reading these!

Tia requested: "If you are not done with requests, could you write one where Dean has broken ribs or a broken jaw or something and then gets sick, so when he coughs or sneezes he's in a lot of pain. And Sam makes him take painkillers and pets his hair." My imagination nearly melted at the petting Dean's hair part! Yes! Honestly, that's what I'm most excited about writing in this chapter! Thank you, Tia, for a wonderful request full of fluff potential.

Time to take it back to an early season! This one is set in season two!

* * *

Tia (II)

* * *

_January 2, 2007_

It's two days after the New Year begins when an angry spirit tosses Dean down the stairs. Sam has to finish the job, obviously, but his mind is so frazzled the entire time that he manages to nearly break his nose into tiny pieces. All he can picture is his brother lying in an unconscious, crumpled heap by the steps, and his heart starts to pound wickedly and almost out of his chest. He completes the salt and burn process with no further complications.

When he sprints back to Dean, he notes that he is still out cold. He doesn't hesitate. God knows how many times his big brother has saved his ass, and this certainly isn't the first time Sam has had to carry the six foot one man to the Impala by himself. Luckily for him, Dean's three inches shorter and thirty-something pounds lighter, so it makes it a bit easier than it would vice versa. His brother would kill him if he saw that he was hoisting him up bridal style.

He marches through a few inches of freshly fallen snow that litters the frozen January ground, not caring when his wool socks starts to dampen more and more with each step. Dean is his number one priority right now, especially since he's passed out and can't actually tell him what's wrong, not that he would do that willingly anyway. All he can physically see is the bruising forming around his hairline and the split open lip from hitting the edge of a stair.

The instant he places Dean in the Impala, he stirs, opening up bloodshot eyes and glancing up at Sam. "Tall, S'mmy," he mumbles.

"Yeah, Deano. It's just 'cause you're short," he says, carefully covering him with a blanket. He'll inspect his wounds further at the motel.

Dean shakes his head. "When'd you ge' so... big?"

The younger Winchester panics before he can even begin to formulate an answer in his mind. He isn't too sure Dean isn't sporting a concussion right now, but it's incredibly hard to tell. Yes, he knows he had to have conked his head pretty good on the steps and the hardwood floor at the end, but he isn't sure how much damage twelve or so stairs can really do, especially to his "invincible" brother. "Um... years ago," is all he manages to squeak out.

"Don' like it... S'psed to be the big brother."

Sam kisses him on top of the head. "You still are," he whispers. Shit. He must really be hurt if he let him get away with that without lecturing or smacking him upside the head. Sam gets in the driver's seat of the Impala and begins to speed briskly down the highway. The entire hour and a half drive is spent focusing on his now unconscious brother lying down in the backseat, snoring quietly. He cranks the heat and glances back every few seconds, even though he can't see much in the pitch darkness of a lonely Illinois road in the dead of winter.

By the time they arrive at the motel, Dean is mumbling incoherently in the backseat. And then the whimpering starts. Sam immediately puts the family care into park and gets out, running to the backseat. His brother gives him a watery smile, even though there are tears swelling in the corners of his eyes. Oh yeah; a concussion is a given at this point. Dean points almost hesitantly to his ribs and hiccups, sniffling in the process.

"Let's get you inside before I check you out."

He gently lifts him back up and carries him inside the overly warm motel room. Dean seems to practically melt in his arms once he realizes the hot air has enveloped around him, and it makes Sam happy to see that he's at least somewhat relieved. He sets him down on a bed and begins to remove layers on his clothes, allowing his brother to lean on him in support any way he can so he doesn't have to move too much himself. By the time he's done, Dean is left in boxers and the shirt that was hidden beneath his flannel, shivering harshly.

"I'll try to make this fast," he says, coaxing him to lie on his back on the bed; he already checked there while changing him. First, he has to check his head. Pupils are dilated, but active. Movements are slow and sluggish. Minor concussion. Sam can deal with that. That's basically every other day with them in the first place. Next, he checks the ribs he pointed at moments ago. Shit. Ouch. Dean's torso and stomach area is nothing but a nasty mar of blue and black bruises, which litter and coat almost all of the skin. Broken ribs. He's not sure of how many. But, the one positive thing is that his lips aren't blue, so there's no pneumothorax.

Dean is almost entirely one giant contusion. He finds nothing more than a sprained ankle, which looks relatively minor as well; he'll probably be up and walking on it in a few days as long as he wears a wrap or a brace. He watches as his brother's eyes slowly droop closed, but he shakes his shoulder gently. He can fall asleep soon, but not quite until he's done taking painkillers, getting his wounds tended to, and changing into warmer clothing.

When Sam approaches Dean with two painkillers and a cup of water, his older brother eyes him like he's lost his damn mind. The thing with Dean and concussions, no matter how major or minor they are, is that he can go from bat shit crazy to completely lucid in a matter of seconds. This can cause the tears to stop forming and for him to revert back into standard "I'm fine" mode, which is the case right now. Sam knows it sounds weird, but his brother neglects the TLC he needs so much that he actually enjoys taking care of him. Don't get him wrong; he hates it when Dean is hurt or sick. But it is nice to be able to help him every once in a while.

"C'mon," he coaxes. "They'll help you sleep."

He doesn't bother to say anything else. Sam knows he's stubborn and feels crappy, so he obliges by swallowing the pills with a small swig of water. Sam smiles gratefully and begins to wrap his ankle and ribs. He is incredibly gentle because of how much agony he can tell he's in and doesn't want to admit it. The younger Winchester elevates his foot with a pillow and finishes binding his ribs. Dean sighs almost in relief, so he knows that the added pressure actually takes off the pressure from his injuries. All that's left is to change him.

Sam settles on a pair of toasty flannel pajama pants and one of his hoodies to go over his undershirt. Dean cuddles his hands into the pouch and flips the hood to where it covers his eyes. It's about two sizes too big on him, and that's part of the reason Sam knows why he likes it. The other part, the big part, is that it belongs to Sam. Dean has a habit of trying to act strong and stoic when his little brother knows he's way more of a softie than he lets on.

Dean's eyes are closed, and he's beginning to snore quietly. Sam drapes a blanket over his still form.

"Goodnight, Dean."

* * *

_January 3, 2007_

Sam wakes up to sound of coughing. Harsh, wet, lung rattles fill the small motel room, and he instantly clicks on the bedside lamp. Through bleary vision, he notes that his brother is sitting straight up in bed, clutching both of his hands to his sore torso. The younger of the two hops up immediately and sits down on the edge of the bed, willing Dean to sit back against the pillows to take some pressure off of his ribs. Tears are streaming down his bruised cheeks.

Carefully, Sam puts a hand to Dean's forehead. Shit. It's burning hot beneath his touch. Leave it to his brother to get injured last night and get sick today. Snot bubbles are forming in his nose, and one of them pops dangerously close to his brother's mouth. Sam grabs a washcloth and wipes it away, using the other side of it to cool off his face. He can't help but feel terrible because of this truly shitty situation. Dean's got at least two or three broken ribs and can barely move. How in the world is he supposed to handle coughing and sneezing?

Speaking of sneezing, his brother is trying the whole pinching his nose between his fingers trick, but it ends with a loud, vicious sneeze that sprays lightly on to Sam's face. He uses his pajama shirtsleeve as a rag and washes off his chin. Dean whimpers out loud and grabs on to Sam's hand, not daring to let it go. It's just past three in the morning, they're both clearly exhausted, and Dean, more than him specifically, needs to rest this off.

He uncurls Dean's fingers from around his wrist and goes to get him more medicine. He opts for general antibiotics instead of the usual combination of NyQuil and Tylenol because he's worried about any form of infection, pneumonia, bronchitis, or whatever. Dean tends to go down hard when he gets sick, and it wouldn't surprise him if he headed through a bad path when he's in this kind of shape. He wants to be precautious this time, especially with Dean laid up in bed.

Once again, he gets him to take them without any true hitches. All he wants is for his brother to feel better, and it is nice when he doesn't continuously battle or fight him about the smallest details. He either gets one or the other with Dean; it's either damn near emotional wreck and wants to be close to him, or it's get the hell away from me before I punch you in the face. It's a tad bit on the refreshing side for Dean to be more fragile than angry.

"S-Stay," Dean whispers, re-clutching back on to his hand and pulling him in closer. Sam nods, but doesn't say anything else. He smiles and settles in the bed behind Dean. The older Winchester can't roll on to his side, so Sam does the cuddling part for him and places his head on the crook of Dean's shoulder, staying as close as possible. Dean is still holding on to his hand, and Sam chuckles. Within minutes, they're both fast asleep and snoring.

* * *

"S-Sammy..."

The younger Winchester shakes awake at the sound of his name being whispered and his shoulder being shaken fiercely. He pops open to find his brother with tears spilling over his flushed cheeks, holding on tightly to his injured ribs. He sneezes at least five times in a row, and he coughs immediately afterword. Sam's heart shatters when he sees the bloodshot eyes, fever flush across his cheeks, and the massive amount of snot pouring from his nose and chapping his lips.

"Dean, buddy," he coaxes. He, once again, pushes flat against the pillows. Dammit. Combined with him being sick and the broken ribs, he has to be miserable. There will definitely be a hospital trip in the future if he can't get his levels of pain under control. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like much will provide any relief, but he has to try something. He gets out of bed and grabs one heating pad and one cooling pad. He tries the cooling pad first.

His big brother squirms and coughs and tries to wriggle himself away from the cold touch. Hmm. Sam figured that out of both choices the cold would help the swelling go down and, in turn, relieve some of the pain he is suffering through. He removes the cooling pad and applies the heated one, pleased when the warmth provides almost instant melting and relaxed facial expressions from his brother. Thank God at least something works.

The younger Winchester also doses him back up with medication. Jeez. He hopes this cold passes quickly because the ribs are never going to heal properly if he's coughing this much. Sam settles back down next to his brother, who is holding a tissue in one hand and pressing delicately on the heating pad with the other. Sam reaches out a hesitant arm and gently begins to stroke Dean's soft, sweaty hair. Normally, he would rub his back until he fell asleep, but that isn't going to be an option for at least six more weeks.

Dean soaks into the touch and scoots closer, but barely. Sam keeps carding his fingers through his hair until he falls asleep.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope this was okay, Tia! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	75. ChocAndSnow19

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all so much for favoriting, following, reviewing, requesting, and reading! =)

Happy birthday, Sam Winchester! =) It's really hard to believe how young he was when the show started.

ChocAndSnow19 requested: "Could you write some sort of an 'additional scene,' set after the end of season 4, episode 16 ('On the Head of a Pin')? I'd like to see what happened after Dean's conversation with Cas. Maybe Sam could visit Dean and try to console him." That episode hurt me in so many ways! I was definitely shocked by the entire series of events. And you know poor Dean must have felt absolutely terrible about breaking the first seal.

This isn't exactly consoling. To me, this episode was too hot and heavy for that. It really was a major turning point for the brothers.

Direct dialogue taken from act five of 4x16. Rated for quite a few F-bombs.

* * *

ChocAndSnow19

* * *

_March 19, 2009_

"Are you alright?"

The inquiry shakes Dean awake, who had somehow managed to doze off after only having his eyes open for thirty seconds previously. Damn medication. He is so fuzzy and hazy that he doesn't feel any pain, so he guesses that's good. What he can feel is the tickling of a nasal cannula beneath his nose and the IV poking at his right arm. Dean turns his head weakly and sees that it's Cas sitting beside him in a grey hospital chair instead of Sam.

"No thanks to you." His voice is raspy and hoarse, almost sounding as if he somehow caught a cold. He wouldn't be surprised if he did, afterall. But he's so fucking pissed at Cas for making him go in there and torture Alistair that he can barely think of anything else. Why him? Can't anyone see how fucking messed up he is? He's fresh from Hell, won't sleep or eat, and insists on drinking his problems away. He's bound to go down swinging with a bottle of whiskey in hand.

Cas shakes his head. "You need to be more careful."

"You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap."

What happened back there... It was unforeseeable, especially to Cas. And he gets that. But Cas and that fucking dick monkey Uriel _knew_ what could happen. They sent him in there to torture the master torturer himself, and it got him freaking smashed and hammered upon. He's not mad that he's in the hospital and hurt; he's mad because he thought the brunette sitting next to him was his _friend_. And friends definitely don't further traumatize (to that degree) their friends.

"That's not what I mean. Uriel is dead."

Dean's eyes widen. "Was it the demons?

"It was disobedience. He was working against us."

The dark blond Winchester can barely hear him over the sound of his own heart beating viciously in his ears. He... He broke the first seal. He's the one who fucking started all of this. He started the Goddamn apocalypse. Dean jumped off the wrack and began to torture souls. If he had waited ten more years, none of this would have happened. Dad didn't break. Why did he? Is really so weak and stupid and selfish that he could allow this to happen to an entire planet?

"Is it true?" he asks. "Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?"

"Yes. When we discovered Lilith's plan for you, we laid siege to Hell, and we fought our way to get to you before you-"

"Jump-started the apocalypse."

He shouldn't be so dumb. Normally, Dean would never do such a thing like torture others. He was so fucking sick of the slicing and dicing and then being brought back whole to do it all over again. His skin burned and singed, and he screamed his brother's name until he had no voice, until he was nothing but a finger or a toe. He would seemingly fall asleep and wake up back to his usual body, only to be shouting Sam's name for the rest of eternity.

And he couldn't take it anymore. Everyday, he fought with himself. He couldn't step down and take the knife and start to do it to someone else. Even if they had been the worst person in the world, Dean's not that guy. He's Sam Winchester's big brother; that's all he's ever felt like he was in life. But in the pit, things weren't like that. Sam was on Earth; Dean was in Hell. He cried and sobbed and pleading until he couldn't do it. He couldn't stand it.

So he took that fucking knife out of Alistair's hands and wickedly tore apart a human-fucking-being with no remorse. Hell, it felt _good _to dish some of it out himself. He was so tired of being picked on and cut at. Dean dug into souls like he was digging into his own life, searching desperately for some meaning. He wasn't human. He was a demon down there. Twisted and tortured and one hundred percent no longer Dean Winchester.

"And we were too late."

"Why didn't you just leave me there, then?"

He wishes Cas and the dick squad would have never rescued him. Without him, the world would still be normal. Sure, Sam would be sneaking around and doing things he shouldn't be, but at least he didn't have anyone to hold him back. He knows that's all he's been doing. He sulks and drinks and bottles it all way because he feels Sam won't listen. He's too wrapped up in Ruby. And that's okay. He doesn't think too highly of himself anyway.

"It's not blame that falls on you, Dean; it's fate. The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it."

He scoffs. "Lucifer? The apocalypse? What does that mean?" He stops cold once he notices Cas fidgeting next to him, looking flighty. "Hey! Don't go disappearing on me, you son of a bitch! What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Cas sates.

"Bull."

"I don't, Dean. They don't tell me much... I know our fate rests with you."

Tears begin to swell in the corners of his eyes. "Well, then you guys are screwed... I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. Alistair was right. I'm not all here. I'm not-I'm not strong enough... Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me." And the tears fall, dripping on to his hospital gown. He glances over to see if Cas is still there, but he's not. He's alone in this fucking room. And he doesn't know what to do.

Dad would rip his ass a new one and make him face his fears. He's scared; he's Dean fucking Winchester, and he's running away like a little girl. But Sam... Sam is the one who can do this. Screw destiny. Screw fate. He wants it all to be over. He doesn't want to lead some apple pie life, but he also is tired of being a hunter. He's exhausted, and the whole world sits on his shoulders, just like always. He has to be there for everyone else, but yet he's falling apart at the seams.

The world would be a better place without him. And Sam... Well, he would be better off without him, too.

* * *

Dean is half-watching some lame ass sitcom on a TV that was probably made in the early 1990s. He can't pay much attention to it though because his head is aching terribly. Part of him wishes the drugs would kick back in and make him go to sleep, but nothing is happening anymore. He curls into a tight ball on his side, which, in turn, makes his monitors beep like crazy, especially when he loses the pulse ox on his right index finger.

"Is everything okay in here, Mr. Carter?" a nurse asks, making a mad dash into the room.

Dean nods. "Uh, yes. S-Sorry about that. Just... Just trying to make m-myself comfortable."

The nurse comes over for further inspection, placing the pulse ox and nasal cannula back on. He must really look like shit because she keeps staring at him awkwardly, as if there's something she wants to say. But, instead, she carefully touches a hand to his forehead, and he winces when it makes direct contact with his skin. Her hand feels like a freaking ice cube. "You feel awfully warm, sweetie," she says. "Do you want anything for the pain?"

He only responds with a nod and a small, barely noticeable smile. Hey, maybe more meds will make him fall asleep faster. He hates spending the night in the hospital, and he's sure Sam won't let him sign out AMA, anyway. So, he knows he's stuck here for the night, and the more sleep he can get the better off he'll be. Plus, what the hell is the use in being conscious if he's as done as he is? The nurse administers the drugs, and then she leaves.

Dean smushes his free hand between his cheek and the pillow and stares aimlessly at the room. The moment his eyes begin to droop closed, he hears footsteps. He wishes he could be happy to see his brother walk in and sit down with coffee in his hand, but, the truth is, he isn't feeling it. He doesn't want Sam to even be anywhere near him when he's in this state of mind. Dean is like a disease that keeps on spreading, and he would hate for Sam to be as useless as him.

"How're you doing, man?" Sam asks.

Dean shrugs, but doesn't bother with anything else.

"Listen," Sam says with a heavy sigh. "I know you're mad at me, but I'm not doing anything wrong."

He closes his eyes and is half-tempted to turn the other way if his body didn't hurt so damn much. Dean isn't exactly in a talkative mood right now, and he's so fucking tired that he can't picture having a conversation with his brother, especially not this version of his brother. He doesn't get it. He did _everything_ when they were younger to help Sam, and all he gets now is a trip to Hell, a torturer's license, and his pride and joy sibling is having sex with a damn demon.

And he's think that he's weak and too emotionally compromised and not the same hunter he once was. Yeah, that doesn't hurt him at all. He guesses he should be used to it by now. Since he was four, he's been cleaning up messes, shuttling Sam to and from school, diapering his fucking ass, teaching him how to read and write, helping him stand up to bullies, cooking him meals, and tucking him in at night. He's been stomped on way more than he should.

He's exhausted. There's no simpler term for it. So seeing Sam right now isn't what he wants. He'd like a bullet to the head or, better yet, a bottle of Jack to drown out his worries. He wants to be numb and to not feel a damn thing. He wants to forget about Hell and wash it all away. Part of him wishes Alistair had twisted his neck, and maybe the douchebag angels would let him in Heaven. He scoffs internally at that; yeah fucking right.

"I know you don't get what's going on with me and Ruby, but, for the hundredth time, I'm telling you that I'm staying safe."

Dean glances back over at him, raising his eyebrow. "Safe? As if screwing a demon is safe."

"She's helping me, Dean! She's helping us win this battle!"

"Yeah? Well it's not your fucking battle to fight!"

"Oh, I forgot. You're the only one who can stop it. Well, then why the hell did I have to save your ass back there?"

Dean's entire body is shaking, and he's about to blow his top. There's no use. He's done. "Screw you," is all he manages to mutter, before completely turning away. At this point, he would typically have tears at least swelling in his eyes, but he's too angry to show any other kind of emotion. _Calm down, jackass. Just breathe._ And so he does. He breathes and tries to comfort himself and wraps his arms around his torso, trying to ignore his brother.

He's tired of always having to do the comforting. Why can't someone help him for once? But, yeah, he's just being a baby.

"What is wrong with you, man?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing." It comes out barely above a whisper.

"Why can't you just say it? And not about Ruby. Why can't you tell me what's going on in that head of yours?"

_Maybe because this isn't my brother._

Sammy used to care. He would climb into bed with him in the middle of the night up until the day he left for Stanford and initiate the biggest chick flick moments in the universe, but Dean didn't mind. He felt... needed and wanted and like he made a difference with his useless life. Even once Sammy was dragged back into the family business four and a half years ago, he still wanted to talk to him. Now, _Sam_ won't listen to him, and pushing it all down is what he has to do.

"It doesn't matter."

He hears Sam sigh heavily. "Yes it does. Why do you say that?"

Dean faces back toward him. "You don't listen, Sam! And, hell, since I got back, you don't even act like you give a rat's ass about me! You're so consumed in your Ruby thing that you don't realize I wake up every time you walk out that fucking door to go meet her! I wait every single night for you to come back because I'm not sure if you will. And with your whole power thing... forget it. I'm done harassing you about that. You're a grown ass man."

He stops there, even though he could keep going for hours. But Dean doesn't want to burden him with anymore of his baggage that he's been holding on to tightly since 1983. He can't remember a single time that he told someone, even Sam, what was truly, one hundred percent going on in his head. And it sucks, but he has to do that. His existence means nothing without Sam, so he has to put a smile on a play pretend like the dumb older brother he's supposed to be.

"Dean, I-"

The older Winchester shakes his head. "Dude, it's... it's... Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, I-"

"I'm tired. I'm gonna hit the sack."

"... Oh. Okay."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I was so tempted to write more, but I didn't want to stray too far away from what I thought OTHOAP really was. I was going to go on to the next day when Sam brought Dean back to the motel room and talk about the recovery process, but I couldn't bare to do anymore. I feel like this is honest to God what could have happened in the show (not my words by any means, but the general story and mood behind it). So, I left it. I hope it turned out okay, ChocAndSnow 19! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	76. Sue333

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the amazingly brilliant television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

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Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! I truly do appreciate it! =)

Has anyone seen the new _Avenger's _movie? No spoilers here, but I just wanted to say that it was amazing! Go see it if you can!

Sue333 requested: "Dean is badly injured, and for whatever reason Crowley has to take care of him. Dean is too out of it to understand that Crowley is actually trying to help him, so Dean keeps trying to escape, and this just makes him sicker. Add to this that Crowley really doesn't want to play nurse (but is astonishingly good at it?) and the arguing between an irritated Crowley and a confused/sick Dean could be hilarious." Of course Crowley would be a good nurse!

I am honestly nervous about writing this one, so this may be one of those "oh God, look away!" scenarios. I have literally never even written a story with Crowley in it period (in fact, I'm not even sure if I've ever mentioned him in any of these either), so writing his character may be rough. Plus, I'm not as witty or funny as he is, so I may screw this one up a lot. However, I do love the uniqueness of the prompt! I'm just sorry if I mess it up terribly.

This is going to be set in season nine between 9x11 "First Born" and 9x12 "Sharp Teeth."

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Sue333

* * *

_January 24, 2014_

"It's your bloody birthday?"

The King of Hell isn't granted a response. Dean Winchester, who is currently a roasted, toasted comatose mess, is slumped in a heap on the concrete ground. Blood is pouring from an open wound above his right eye and on the back of his skull, matting into his dark blond hair. Crowley drops the wallet he picked from his jeans pocket (hey, even the King of Hell could use a bag of chips from the vending machine) and sighs heavily, smoothing his hair back.

"Y'know, Squirrel, it would be easier if you just talked to me."

He doesn't even bother to make any movements, so Crowley kicks him gently in the side with his boot, careful not to scuff the tips. The extremely newly turned thirty-five year old pest of a human is gushing crimson, but he really doesn't feel like assisting a Winchester from bleeding to death. But, Dean bares the Mark of Cain, and he is the position where he kind of needs that extra "umph" with that skanky bitch Abaddon and all. Maybe he should do something...

Crowley contemplates calling for assistance from his demon minions, but he opts not to. No one other than him and Squirrel needs to know about the Mark. He's sure that Moose and that Goddamn ex-Godstiel will be enlightened sooner rather than later, but he doesn't think they will step in the way of the plan to stab and singe and stab the hell out of Abaddon. He chuckles to himself, but he can't quite figure out how exactly to help the Winchester.

Instead, he rolls him on to his back with his foot. "Hmm..." He rubs beneath the scruff on his chin. He's the bloody King of Hell, not a damn nurse. Sure, he could just snap his fingers and heal him, but what fun would that be? Plus, it's Dean Winchester. This kid could turn on him any minute, and there's no way he's going to slide through that. If he leaves him like this, though, he'll probably bleed to death in a matter of minutes, judging from the massive head wound and gashes on his side. To help or not to help is truly the question.

So he does the only thing he can think of and clicks his thumb and middle finger together, zapping him and the unconscious body into some random hotel room. Luxurious, yes; only the finest for the King of the Underworld. While he's at it, he pops up some wine, the most expensive bottle he can think of in all his years of immense knowledge, and sips it delicately, still staring harshly at Dean, who is ghost white on the bed. What in the hell is he supposed to do now?

"I'm a bloody idiot," he whispers to himself. He kneels down next to Squirrel and touches his forehead lightly with two fingers, searching through his mind for ways to care for humans. He doesn't want to help him too much, but he certainly has enough leverage to cause him to suffer a bit. Plus, blood loss and injury could hold him up for a bit while he gathers his bearings. Afterall, he doesn't want Dean Winchester or the Mark of Cain on his ass. "Aha."

Within the hunter's memories is stored several times of him taking care of his younger brother, Moose. He would think it was sweet and kind of comforting in an aesthetically appealing way if he weren't a demon. Through Dean's recollection, he discovers that stitching up wounds with whiskey, a needle, and some thread stops the bleeding. Ice helps contusions and the worst of the bruises. And, good God, are they snuggling? Holy hell...

Humans. Jesus Christ (haha, yeah right). The puny, insignificant twats hug and lock hands and hold on to each other for eternity without ever letting go. He just never thought neither Dean nor Sam Winchester were friendly enough to do that for each other. He forgets they're brothers because, eighty percent of the time he runs into them, they're bitch face fighting and will barely talk to one another, which is how Dean ended up with the bloody Mark of Cain in the first place.

Life for him is all about convenience, so he snaps his fingers to magically stitch up the gash on the back of his head and the still bleeding cut north of his eye. There. All better. Next, he goes to carefully remove the muddy, dirty dark blue jacket the Winchester is wearing; he watched Moose do it in Squirrel's noggin. The instant he tries to do this, Dean's eyes pop wide open, and he instantly sits up. "Where the hell am I?" he says, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

Crowley rolls his eyes and half-winces internally at the purple and blue bruises covering the Winchester's battered hands. There are scrapes on the tips of each individual finger, and his right palm is torn to hell. "Hotel outside of Burbank. Fanciest place in this Godforsaken state." Sometimes, Crowley entertains himself by making fun of God and sayings such as that one; it amuses him. Nothing like the phrase "Godforsaken" coming from the King of Hell.

Despite his obvious injuries, the Winchester stands up, shakily pointing a gun at Crowley's chest, even though he knows nothing will happen. "I wanna know why you're here," he spits. Jeez. Dean has always been a bit on the angry side. Crowley chalks it up to years of abandonment, Daddy issues, and gigantor baby brother Sammy not paying enough attention to him. "Answer me!" Squirrel musters out, even though he looks like he's going to keel over any second.

Crowley puts his hand on the gun and lowers it to the floor. "Now, now, Squirrel. I'm here to help your pathetic ass."

His eyebrows rise. "I don't need your help! I wanna know why I'm here."

"Did you really hit your head that hard?"

Squirrel bites his lower lip and waves his arms around like a dodo bird. "Apparently!"

"I saved you from being wiped out by a gang of demons."

"Demons? You're the King of Hell. That means you sent them after me."

Crowley shrugs. "Details. Now I'm here to help you. It's a little insurance policy for that Mark of yours."

Dean's temper immediately flares. Crowley doesn't budge. He certainly isn't afraid of a Winchester, and, if he had to choose one to be afraid of, it would be the one standing in front of him. However, in his currently clearly injured state, nothing Dean could say or do would do much damage. He needs the Winchester's help in order to take down Abaddon, and he's just making sure that his end of the bargain is held up as opposed to disappearing into thin air.

Slowly, he watches Dean begin to crumble back on to the hotel bed, putting his head in his hands. His red and grey flannel sleeves are rolled up to nearly his elbows, and Crowley can see the bright pink Mark marring his skin. He smiles. Dean doesn't yet know the power or feelings associated with it yet because he's never touched nor seen the Blade, but he will soon enough. And he needs him to be at least somewhat functioning to win this fight.

"Where's Sam?"

Of course. He's constantly worrying about the snot nosed brat of his. "Safe."

"I swear to God if you touch him, I'll kill you first instead of Abaddon."

Crowley sits down on the other bed, and Dean glares up angrily at him. "Relax, Squirrel. Sammy is fine."

"Good. He better stay that way... And do me a favor; don't call him Sammy."

* * *

Squirrel passes out sometime later, hand smushed beneath bruised cheek, looking like a little angel. Pfft... Yeah right. Dean may be the true vessel of archangel Michael and have Godstiel's fancy handprint on his shoulder, but he bares the Mark of Cain. He's the first murderer in history. Ironically enough, he killed his brother. It's the one person Crowley can easily picture Dean never touching, but it's the bloody Mark of Cain. One never knows with such unpredictability.

He wonders how it feels to be possessed with such a thing, to have it adorned on one's skin, branded permanently. Crowley has yet to tell Dean what the Mark does, how it works, and how it may ultimately destroy his life for the rest of eternity. He doesn't have to worry about the minor details until way later on down the road. Like he said before, Dean hasn't touched the Blade, doesn't know its powers, and won't have a Goddamn clue until he does.

And once he feels that sensation, white-hot rage flooding through his veins, he'll never be able to go back from that. It's something unmistakingly, unimaginably horrible, or at least that's what Crowley figures it to be. Cain's a crazy asshat of a serial killer, so he presumes that that may be where Dean is heading. Who knows? Maybe they'll be best buddies when this is all said and done. Truth be told, he _does_ indeed like Squirrel; he likes him way more than Moose.

Crowley is taking another sip of wine when he hears rustling from Dean's bed. The Winchester stands up, puts a shaky hand to his forehead, and practically sways on his feet in front of him. Sheesh. The King of Hell gets to his feet too, trying his best to steady the almost drunkenly looking man by putting his hands on his shoulders. Dean's eyes are bloodshot and glazed over, and he's barely focusing on anything at all. How they hell did he get out of bed?

"Ge' off me..."

"Whoa whoa whoa. Is that anyway to talk to your nurse, Squirrel?"

Dean's eyes widen, seemingly to be present in the moment for the time being. "Crowley?"

"In the flesh," he says with a toothy smile.

The Winchester backs away slowly, shaking away his touch. "'t am I doin' here?"

"What are you? Incompetent or something? I saved your hide hours ago!"

Dean shakes his head wildly. "I... I gotta go."

And, with that, he stumbles toward the door of the hotel room, quickly trying to make his escape. Bloody hell. Crowley snaps his fingers and locks the door from the inside before Dean can leave. This kid has no reason to be freaking out or going anywhere with how hard he's trembling and trying to focus on simple tasks, such as actually walking. Dean tugs on the doorknob, hiccups, and almost instantly gives up, sinking to the floor and putting his head in between his knees.

Oh bullocks.

"Dean," Crowley says, kneeling down in front of him. "Dean," he repeats, coaxing the Winchester to look at him.

"Ain't afraid of you..."

"Sure you aren't. That's why you're trying to run away like a pansy little girl. I'm not going to hurt you."

And he guesses he means it. Or, for now he does, anyway.

* * *

The piss ant starts running a fever around three in the morning. Crowley doses him up with the best fever meds he could zap here and somehow settles him back into bed. If he and his brother were on better terms, he would send him there. But, Sam and Dean are no longer seeing eye to eye (shocker), so he isn't even going to bother. Perhaps he could take him to that awful Castiel, but he doesn't feel like being fingered by angels today, thank you very much.

So, he's stuck with the kid. Sometimes, company is a good thing. He's in no danger here tonight, anyway, especially with Dean not being able to properly formulate sentences. There's no way he could draw his gun again, stab him, or manipulate him into getting his way. Hell, Dean could barely walk earlier, so how's he going to run? A smidge of Crowley actually feels kind of _bad_ for the Winchester and his situation, but he gets over that rather quickly.

"Don't feel so good..." a croaked mumble rings out into the open room, shaking Crowley out of his trance.

"What was that, Squirrel?"

And then something horrifying happens. The King of Hell immediately jumps out of his comfy leather chair and leaps to find a trashcan. By the time he returns, Dean is gripping on to his stomach, arms wrapped harshly around his torso. He's coughing, hiccupping, and sweating all over the damn place. A sea of yellow, chunky vomit coats the floor and the hunter's already soiled jeans. Shit. Holy fuck. What the hell is he supposed to do with this?

The Winchester blinks up at him with tears streaming down his cheeks. Whoa. He figured Dean was more or less a hallow shell of a man, one who fights just to fight and protects his brother because it's what he was raised to do. He didn't even know he fell into the category of humans that could_ cry_. Given, it could be because he just vomited or because his head must be killing him, but he isn't so sure. Dean Winchester cries. How about that.

Dean is still hiccupping and wiping his runny nose on his jacket sleeve. Crowley extends his hand, offering him assistance with standing, in which the Winchester looks at him like he's lost his mind. And maybe he has. When the hell did he go soft anyway? Either way, the offer still stands, and Dean accepts it; Crowley guesses it's because he has no other choice. He steadies him on his feet, zapping a clean pair of clothes into his hands.

"You need to shower. Your breath reeks like dead rats."

The hunter rolls his eyes, but he doesn't dare utter a word, completely and utterly humiliated by what just occurred. Crowley watches him shuffle into the bathroom, clicking the door closed gently behind him. The King of Hell cleans up the mess of vomit by snapping his fingers before he sits back down in his chair, crossing his legs, picking up a book, and moving on from wine to the oldest whiskey in the galaxy. He takes a sip, cherishing the warm and fuzzy feeling it gives his insides. Hey, it's the finer things in life that excite him.

He loses track of time somewhere along the line because he nearly jumps out of his skin when Dean emerges from the bathroom, steam rolling out along with him. He's wearing a pair of jeans and a grey thermal long sleeved shirt, his hair is standing up in every direction from towel drying it, and there's a deep, dark red hue to his cheeks. He still looks like crap rolled over in more crap, but anything is better than being covered in his own sickness.

Dean lies down in the bed, pulling the covers over his head. Crowley can't help but chuckle when quiet snores fill the room, practically lulling him to sleep too, if he could actually sleep. The King of Hell glances back up from his book and really begins to think about this freaking hunter in his hotel room. Seriously. They were enemies for years and years on end, but he doesn't exactly look at him that way anymore. No. Tonight he's vulnerable and missing his brother, but he doesn't say a word about him because he's too strung out over him to do so.

In a lot of ways, Dean Winchester is a perpetually and undeniably screwed up human being. John, his alcoholic and obsessive father, used to wail on the kid when he was plastered, and young Dean took the beatings so he wouldn't go after Sam. And don't get him started on that other hunter. He's never really liked Sam all that much, and he doesn't understand, other than family, why Dean does either. All he's ever done to him is wreck his life.

Sam is the constant thorn in Dean's side. He has to look after him, take care of him, and used to warm up his bottles in the microwave multiple times a day so the fat baby could eat. Sam kicked him to the curb to go to Stanford, to screw one of his demons in the line of duty, to get his ass sent to Purgatory, and, more recently, to push him to the point to bare the Mark of Cain. Damn. Crowley used to think his life was bad. No one has it worse than Dean.

The hunter in his hotel room is still snoring his head off, coughing every so often in his sleep. He's dreaming about his brother; Crowley can see it. Sam is in bed with Ruby, sucking her blood, and Dean is watching from the corner of the room with a knife in his hand, contemplating using it on his brother. It's been five and a half years since his resurrection from Hell, and he still thinks about his brother going dark side and basically turning into a demon.

But, there's a difference between him and Dean Winchester. He couldn't give a rat's ass about family or brothers or loyalty or an absent, abusive father. He doesn't care about values and honesty and friendship. But Dean Winchester does. Even though he bares the most dangerous thing he could and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, Sam will always be there to keep him from going nuts, even if Crowley can't foresee why.

"Happy birthday, Squirrel," he mutters to Dean Winchester, the man who will do anything to protect everyone but himself.

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**Author's Note:** Once again, I'm sorry if it was horrible, haha. I hope you liked it, Sue333! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	77. ParaNitroChick (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all for favoriting, following, requesting, reading, and reviewing! =)

ParaNitroChick: "Dean gets the stomach flu, and newly human Castiel attempts to take care of him, but they discover Cas is a sympathetic puker. So Sam ends up taking care of them both for a short time. Season 9 or possibly 10." Unfortunately, I'm a lot like Cas then, haha. Honestly, when I write these stories about Dean throwing up, I actually get pretty nauseous, but it's way worse when I hear, see, or smell someone really doing the action.

This is set in season 9. It's AU, and Cas is staying in the bunker with our favorite boys.

The descriptions are a bit graphic, and I got a bit queasy writing it, so you were warned, haha.

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ParaNitroChick (II)

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_December 20, 2013_

It's five days before Christmas. Yesterday, Dean baked cookies for nearly twelve hours straight, using Cas as his decorator. The two of them actually made a pretty good team, considering his older brother is a natural born leader and his ex-angel friend was basically designed to take instructions. The cookies, which ranged from the usual chocolate chip to peanut butter to red velvet all the way to snicker doodle, were spectacular; there was over five hundred made in total.

Needless to say, Sam and Dean were scrubbing the kitchen until two in the morning; Cas long since retired to his bedroom, crumbling with exhaustion the second he hit the bed. The brothers ate a good tenth of the treats, and Sam freaking cherished those things. They were so delicious and still warm and gooey. The bunker more or less is home to all three of them, and the cookies and spending Christmas here together somehow tied it up in his mind for him.

Sam glances down at his wristwatch to discover it's half-past seven in the evening. The sun went down a long time ago in Kansas. Cas went to take a nap about two hours ago, but he was up and chatting Sam's ear off for hours on end before that. He hasn't heard a peep from Dean's room since they went to bed last night, where the only sound he recalls is the brief creaking of the bed before he finally passed out. He's been asleep for over twelve hours now.

He contemplates not disturbing him. Their lives aren't exactly easy, and sometimes they just need a day to rest and recuperate. But Sam would be a fool not to at least check on him. Dean was fine all day yesterday, but doing that much cooking probably just took it out of him. Since they proclaimed the Men of Letters bunker as their own, their sleep schedules have increased, and he's incredibly happy and thankful Dean feels comfortable enough here to sleep for more than four hours every other day. Lately, he's been getting the usual eight to nine.

The younger Winchester pads down the hallway in his black socks, first checking in on Cas. The small brunette is sprawled out on his stomach, hand dangling over the edge and looking so very much like Dean that he can't help but chuckle. Cas picks up on their traits and emulates them to the best of his ability. A warm glow from the television washes over his body, and Sam gently walks in to pull a quilt over him. The ex-angel snuggles deeper into his pillow and sighs.

He strolls across the hall to his brother's bedroom, stopping at the door. Sam stands close and listens for any sounds, but he doesn't hear anything. His heart skips a few beats, and he's afraid his fears are about to be confirmed. He doesn't knock; he just enters quietly. The tall brunette clicks on his bedside lamp, and his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. Oh shit. And, of course, this has to happen five days before his brother's favorite holiday.

Dean's sick. There's no denying or mistaking that. His eyes are adorned with deep purple bags beneath them, looking seemingly sunken in and hollow. His cheeks are flushed red, but the rest of his face has a grey tinge, causing his freckles to alarmingly stand out. There are continuous hitches in his shaky breathing, and he's trembling beneath his heavy comforter. Dean is lying on his side, curled into a tight ball, snoring quite loudly through a bit of congestion.

"Buddy," Sam whispers, shaking his shoulder gently. Jeez. He's burning up beneath his palm.

Dean's eyes flutter open almost immediately, but they droop closed just as fast. He mumbles incoherently and slouches back into his pillow, rubbing his nose on it. Sam cards his fingers through Dean's sweaty, damp hair and winces. That movement though is enough to apparently light something off inside of his brother because he sits up instantly, eyes wide and breathing heavy. "S'ck," he mutters, cupping his hands over his mouth.

"Fuck," Sam says, sprinting into the private bathroom to retrieve a trashcan before Dean proceeds to toss his cookies all over the bed and himself. He forces it beneath his chin and rubs his brother's back from his position on the edge of the mattress, cringing when the heaves become more violent as opposed to dissipating. "Shh, Dean," he coaxes. His brother is damn near having a seizure with how hard he's quivering, and Sam can't manage to look away.

Eventually, the vomiting stops, and Dean pushes the bin away. Sam puts it on the floor and goes off to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He rummages around until he finds NyQuil and Advil. He is extremely hesitant about giving him drugs so soon, but he's been in this situation before. Sometimes, throwing up is a once and done scenario, in which case it's better to get the medicine in the system in order to sleep at least part of the illness off.

Dean is clutching on to his stomach and sitting up wearily against the headboard when he gets back. "Can't t'ke those y't," he says in a hoarse and scratchy voice. "Gonna get s'ck again." He coughs weakly and then burps; Sam's just grateful it's not puke again. He washes his face with the cool cloth he also grabbed, smiling briefly when he sees Dean visibly relax. Sam puts the pills into his hand and gives him the liquid NyQuil to wash them down with.

Even though Sam can tell he's worried, Dean swallows them both anyway, gagging immediately after, but thankfully nothing comes up. He hands him a bottle of water, and Dean takes tentative sips. Sam lowers him back into bed, turns off the light, and crawls in behind him. It's a bit early to be going to sleep, but he really doesn't want to leave his brother when he's in this state. He wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, grinning when Dean's breathing evens out.

* * *

_December 21, 2013_

Cas stretches awake in his bed sometime after eight in the morning. He yawns and scratches his stubble, contemplating how in the world he managed to sleep for that long. He and Dean made cookies the evening before last, and, while they were delicious, they were doing it for hours. It made Cas's neck ache and back begin to feel like it was shriveling up and dissolving. He guesses that explains why he was so exhausted for a majority of yesterday.

However, he's up and raring to go today. He hops out of bed happily, gathers up new clothes for him to wear, and heads into the shower. One of his favorite things about now being human is that he finds standing beneath warm water and washing his hair and body to be relaxing; nothing was that simple when he was an angel. He lathers up his hair with banana and coconut shampoo, his humming quickly turning into an all-out jam session in the bathroom.

He's in the middle of belting out Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On" when he turns off the water, drying off his hair with a fuzzy blue towel. He's been borrowing Dean's iPod, and the older Winchester is still completely unaware of that fact. The music practically rocks him to sleep; most nights, he falls asleep with headphones in his ears. He should probably return it soon, though, before he makes some kind of grammatically incorrect threat.

Cas dries off the rest of his body before stepping into his white and grey plaid boxers and blue jeans. He throws on yet another Christmas sweater, which Sam and Dean both hate equally. This one is black, white, and red and is littered with snowflakes and reindeer; he loves it! It makes his insides feel Christmassy and full of holiday joy. He throws on a pair of socks, runs a quick hand through his hair, and then heads out to see what the Winchester brothers are up to.

He doesn't find either of them in the kitchen, living room, media room, or study. Cas shrugs rather nonchalantly and knocks on Sam's wooden door, figuring the younger Winchester is awake, but maybe just watching TV or reading. He doesn't receive a response, so he opens the door cautiously. No one is in there either. Hmm... There's only one place he has yet to look, so he walks a few doors down to Dean's bedroom and, once again, knocks on the door.

Okay, now Cas is starting to get worried. Did they leave without telling him? Usually, Sam and Dean always take him with them, so he never has to worry about being completely alone. Or, if Sam goes out, Dean will stay here and vice versa. He would guess that they would at least leave a note or a text message, but he's received and found neither. Cas knocks once more before slowly opening the door, biting on his lip in growing nervousness.

Yes! They're in here. His tense body immediately unclenches itself, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. He turns on the light and is quite shocked by what he sees. Sam is flat on his back, mouth wide open and snoring loudly. Dean is curled into his brother's chest, hair destroyed and burrowing beneath the comforter. "Uh, guys?" he asks. "Sam? Dean?" The younger Winchester's eyes are the ones to pop open, which makes Cas feel better too.

"Hmm?" Sam mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. "Time's it?"

Cas glances down at his watch. "Almost ten in the morning."

The taller brunette groans and somehow manages to maneuver himself from beneath Dean, laying him back carefully on his side, pulling the blankets around his shoulder. Sam's hair is a crazy mess, and his long sleeved thermal is hanging off his left shoulder, but he motions for Cas to exit the room with his index finger pressed to his lips anyway. He clicks the door closed softly behind him. "Dean's sick," he says quietly, causing the ex-angel's stomach to drop.

It's never a good thing when Dean doesn't feel well. He's usually combative and wants to argue each and every seemingly insignificant detail, doesn't like being taken care of, and isn't a big fan of the attention it causes. However, there are occasions, like the one he just witnessed, where he's just sick enough that he craves all of those things. To Cas, this means he must be incredibly under the weather and near death for Sam to sleep in there so soon.

"What's wrong with him?"

Sam shrugs. "I think it's a stomach thing. He threw up a few times last night, and he's running a pretty high fever."

Cas nods, but he doesn't say anything further.

"Hey, will you watch him for a bit? We're really low on groceries, and he's going to need some actual food until he gets better."

"Certainly."

Sam smiles. "Cool. Thanks. I'm gonna go change. I should be back in about an hour."

* * *

The thirty year old Winchester leaves about twenty minutes later, and Cas sneaks back into the older of the two's bedroom. Dean is still out like a light, passed out against the pillows, but there is no way he is leaving him here alone. So, he turns on the desk lamp and sits down in the rolling chair, crossing his legs and cozying up with a novel. He's three pages in when there's movement from the bed. He closes the book and sets it on the table.

Dean's bloodshot eyes are open, and he's breathing heavily. There is sweat dripping down the side of his face, and he's quivering harshly. "Do you need your inhaler?" Cas asks, grabbing on to it and holding it closer to Dean's face so he can properly see it since he doubts he has his contacts in right now. There is no verbal response, but the ex-angel does hear something disturbing coming from somewhere... Oh Lord, is that Dean's stomach?

The blond sits straight up in bed and promptly vomits all over himself and the comforter. The brunette has never actually seen a human do this before, although he used to sooth Dean Winchester's upset stomach when he was an infant and toddler. That's the closest he's came into contact with stomach viruses, and, judging by the yellow taint to it, he guesses this has been a less than pleasant experience for his best friend. However, he's a bit frozen right now.

It's weird. Dean falls back into bed without any hesitations, holding on to his torso tightly. Cas knows he should be hauling him out of the mess, getting him in the shower, and cleaning up the puke by stripping the comforter and sheets and throwing them in the laundry. But he can't do that. His own belly is in knots, and there's a lump growing in the back of his throat. How in the world do humans put up with feeling so... queasy whilst ill?

Cas cups a hand over his mouth and steps backwards, forgetting that the chair is close to him. Oh crap. He trips and lands on his hands and knees, panting heavily. He tries his best to hold back the feeling erupting in the back of his throat, but he can't. His stomach violently expels whatever demons lie in there, and he is left breathless once it's over. His muscles are creaking and aching, and he can't focus on anything around him. Why does he feel so poorly? He isn't sick.

His right hand lands in the vomit, which is chunky and red and orange. Cas can't stop looking at it, even though the smell is so foul it's burning his nostrils and singing his nose hairs off. Dean. He's supposed to be taking care of Dean. The brunette's heart is beating fast into his chest, so fast that he can feel his pulse pound in his ears. His eyes are vibrating, and he can't shake the grossness of this entire situation. Dean needs him, so he has to get up.

Only his legs won't move, and his arms won't hoist his body weight up. He looks up to see that Dean is trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and Cas burps, lifting up his left hand as if to say that he's okay and for him to stay still. The older Winchester has this issue with listening, though. He doesn't make it far before hiccupping loudly twice and throwing up whatever bile is left in his system. The sound of Dean's gagging sets off his stomach once again.

There is vomit pooling on the ground from where it's sliding down the side of Dean's wooden bed. The sight, smell, sound... it's all too much for Cas to deal with. His stomach heaves, and he's left doubling over once again, the mess sticking on to his Christmas sweater this time. Tears spill over his beaten red cheeks, and he can't stop coughing up phlegm and these chunks he can't quite identify. Oh God. When will all of this be over for both of them?

"Guys!"

Oh sweet baby Jesus. Sam. He totally forgot about Sam.

* * *

To say that Sam was surprised to find both his brother and friend puking up their guts would be an understatement; he was in a state of full force shock. He could hear the retching from the moment he entered the bunker with three brown paper bags tucked protectively in his arms. He practically dropped the bags and went off running to his brother's room, expecting to see just Dean throwing up violently, but he kind of got a two for one package deal here.

His big brother is sitting up with his head in his hands, coughing and sputtering, letting thick streams of drool and bile soak into his dark grey sweats. Cas is on his hands and knees, all four of which are covered in sickness with his hair matted damply against his forehead. Sam is actually so taken aback by this whole nasty situation that he runs his hands through his hair before getting to work on both of these men. The mess is pretty much everywhere Sam can see.

First, he grabs Dean and carries him to the bathroom bridal style. He removes his clothing and settles him in the shower, where he eventually has to leave, despite the fact that his brother is whimpering and sobbing pitifully in the corner, where he's frightened by the slightly cold temperature of the water Sam set on purpose. He doesn't want to abandon him in this great time of need, but he has two sick people to worry about now instead of one.

Thankfully, Cas is lighter than Dean and slightly more with it and aware, so he walks, using Sam as a human crutch. He drags him into the bathroom across the hall in Cas's actual bedroom. Once again, he strips him, turning on warm water for him since he's not running a fever. His friend takes a seat on the floor, tucking his head in between his knees, but he looks, overall, much more relaxed. His cheeks are even starting to get a healthy tint back to them.

Sam sets out a pair of blue and grey flannel pajama pants and a white long sleeved shirt for the ex-angel to wear before he heads back into Dean's room. Oh God. He plugs his nose instantly and fights back gagging himself. This is going to be delightful to clean up. He sighs before going back into the bathroom, his heart shattering once he discovers Dean has somehow managed to turn the water off, but doesn't have the energy to move, much less stand up.

He is shivering crazily, so Sam wraps him up in two towels before brushing his flat hair back to gauge his temperature. Damn. The shower helped, but not as much as he hoped it would. Dean's eyes are drooping dangerously closed, and he's teetering back and forth despite sitting down on the toilet seat. Sam goes to retrieve warm, heavy pajamas from his own bedroom, settling on an undershirt, his navy blue hoodie, black sweatpants, and wool socks. He helps Dean get into them and carries him back into his bedroom, placing him beneath the covers.

"Do you feel any better?" he asks quietly, running his fingers through Dean's hair once again.

His older brother shakes his head miserably into the fluffy pillows, snuggling deeper beneath the plaid comforter. His next stop with him is to get medicine in him, which goes down without any problems. Dean's throat is probably going to be super sore and irritated for the next few days, but he would much rather deal with that when the time comes. He turns off the lights and tells his brother that he really needs to rest; Dean is asleep before he even closes the door.

Sam goes diagonal down the hall into Cas's room to find him curled in a tight ball on his bed. His hair is soaking wet, and his cheeks are damp with tears. "What's wrong?" he inquires, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Normally, Cas and Sam are kind of awkward when alone together, but living with the guy has really opened up their relationship. Plus, if you ask him, the smaller brunette is a much cooler human than he is an angel.

"I was supposed to be taking care of him," he whispers.

Sam smiles slightly and puts a careful hand on Cas's shoulder. "You can't beat yourself up over that, man. I've gotten sick countless times from cleaning up after Dean." Well, he used to at least. By the time he was sixteen, he was pretty much sick Dean proof and could handle any amount of vomit or blood in the world. Cas is newly human, and he's never actually thrown up himself before today, so there's no way he could have expected this to happen.

"I feel like a failure. I'm not sure how you do it."

The younger Winchester shrugs. "I got used to it. And, believe me, you will too."

Cas nods, but then almost pulls back entirely, looking over at Sam with seriousness in his eyes. "Does Dean hate me now?"

"What? No! Why would you think that?"

"Because I didn't help him when he needed me."

"Dude, Dean could never hate you."

He nods, but he isn't so sure.

* * *

_December 22, 2013_

Cas hesitantly walks into the blond Winchester's room, whose door is wide open. Sam cleaned up the rest of their mess long ago yesterday, and he's since changed the sheets and comforter and has laid Dean on his memory foam mattress. Dean is thankfully awake this time, watching TV lazily out of the corner of his eye, rolled on to his side. According to Sam, he's been throwing up on and off all day, but Cas doesn't care. He needs to make up for yesterday.

"Hi, Dean," he greets softly.

Dean returns with a nod and brief smile. "Hey, Cas."

He sits down in the same rolling chair by his desk that he sat in yesterday, praying that the day's events don't repeat themselves. His stomach is sore and tender, and his voice has been a little scratchy from the rawness in his throat, but, other than that, he's completely fine. He swivels in the chair and goes to watch whatever movie Dean is paying attention to. It's a few minutes of peaceful silence until Dean clears his throat, and Cas flinches.

"You can... um, come lay here... if you want," the older Winchester offers.

Cas's eyebrows rise. "Are you sure? I don't want to hurt your stomach."

"Dude, 'm not five. C'mon."

The ex-angel tentatively settles himself on to Dean's comfy bed, stretching out with his hands behind his head and his ankles crossed. He relaxes almost immediately, that is until the hunter coughs and gags. He's about ready to jump up and run for the other room and Sam, but the noises settle down. Dean scoots closer until his head is resting on his shoulder. Within minutes, Dean is snoring quietly and drooling just a bit on his Christmas sweater.

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**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, ParaNitroChick! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	78. showjumper007

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all so much for following, favoriting, reading, requesting, and reviewing! =)

showjumper007 requested: "My request for a chapter is a fight between Sam and Dean that ends up getting physical and violent, and Sam goes a little too far and really injures Dean. I don't mind which time frame for this request." Time for some backstory! Yay! I love writing ones like these because it gives me an overall much larger picture to focus on when I write my new multi-chapter story. So, this one is going to be set before the show actually starts.

Dean is 22, and Sam is 18.

I wrote this on little sleep, so I apologize if there are mistakes. Finals week is here, and I can't wait to get it all over with! I swear I edited this before I posted it, haha. =)

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showjumper007

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_May 16, 2001_

If he counts today, he only has five more days until he officially graduates high school. The bursting of excitement is bubbling up inside of him, and he wants nothing more than to dart off to Stanford and begin a new life. He loves the newness and freshness of it all, despite the fact that he's thousands of miles away from his new school and still has to wait three months before he can officially move into his dorm room. Part of him thinks he won't survive the summer.

Sam isn't a big fan of these continuous hunts, so he's happy to have a day off for once. Between finals and werewolves and keeping up with his own spinning head, he's been exhausting himself completely. Each night, he's asleep before his face smashes into to the fluffy pillow he stole from Dean's bed. And it's even better because the seniors get the rest of the week off, meaning today was his last actual day of high school.

He's not going to deny it; he's proud. Mom and Dad both graduated high school, but his brother never made it to his big day, dropping out in near the end of the first semester of his senior year at seventeen; he still doesn't know why. But Sam isn't just graduating. He's going to freaking Stanford University on a full ride to become a successful lawyer and get the hell out of the family business. It's really hard for him not to be stoked about it, despite Dad's anger and annoyance.

Dean's taking it differently, though. He's a lot calmer and more collected than he thought he would be. But, he has noticed that he's talking less and less and starting to look like a zombie as each new day comes to a start. Of course, he hunts on the weekends with him and Dad, but he also holds down a nearly sixty hour a week job at the garage a few blocks away and has to maintain the crappy apartments ridiculously crappy standards.

Currently, Sam is sprawled out across the couch, itching for something to do. It was his last day of high school, afterall. It's not that he wants to party, but he's not wanting to sit in the house the rest of the night with his brother. Dean's just folding laundry in the recliner beside him, paying little to no attention to what's on the TV. He's still sporting grease spots on his face, a bit of a sunburn on his cheeks and bridge of his nose, and he's sweating slightly.

The A/C in this place sucks ass, and he's uncomfortable and sticky on the sofa, his shirt becoming increasingly damp. He huffs and sits up, dropping the remote to put his head in his hands boredly. It's half-past seven in the evening, the sun is setting, and he's ready to do something. He knows Kevin is throwing a party about twenty minutes away from here, and he knows that his friends Josh and Jason are going to be there. Maybe it will be fun.

"Hey," he says. "Can I borrow the car?"

Dean stops folding one of Sam's t-shirts to look at him. "Why?"

"Kevin is having a party tonight for the seniors last day. I figured it would be fun," he tells his brother with a shrug. Dean seems like he's beginning to crumble with fatigue, the dark bags beneath his eyes becoming resembling permanent bruises. At first he doesn't seem to know how to respond, and Sam can understand why. He very rarely leaves the house to go out with friends, and parties aren't exactly a Sam Winchester specialty.

It takes a bit, but his brother finally nods. "Sure."

He tosses him the keys, and Sam jumps up cheerfully. "Thanks. See you later."

Just as he's about to push the screen door open, he hears Dean's voice. "Be back by midnight."

"Sure thing."

"And be safe, dude."

"Don't worry, Dean."

* * *

_May 17, 2001_

Dean keeps glancing down nervously at his wristwatch every few seconds. He bites his lip and then chews his fingernails and then proceeds to pace back in forth. On top of that, he checks outside the front door and the window in the kitchen to see if he can make out the silhouette of his brother making his way home. Sam was supposed to be back an hour and a half ago, he won't answer his phone calls, and it would take all night to get to that house on foot.

Millions of worried, probably irrational thoughts flood his mind, and he can't help thinking about what a giant ass mistake he's made. Dad's going to kill him. It will be just like Flagstaff all over again, and, trust him, no part of that week was "fun" for him. He wonders if Sam is hurt or needs a ride or just fell asleep or is in a ditch somewhere. Maybe he crashed the Impala. Maybe he's dead... No. Nope. He shakes his mind away from that terrible thought.

He's dialing Sam's cell phone number again when hears the screen door wriggle open. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest, and he knows what's happening the second he gets a good look at his little brother. Drunk. Shit. Sure, it's not like Sam has never had a beer in his life, but he certainly has never been tipsy or even shitfaced. Dean himself just turned twenty-one a year and a half ago, and Sam turned eighteen about two weeks ago.

"Dean," he slurs the second he sees him, placing his hands on his shoulder.

The older Winchester instantly shakes it away. "Where were you?"

"At Kevin's. Told ya that before I left."

"I've been calling you for over an hour! Did you lose the ability to pick up the damn phone?"

Sam shrugs. "Phone died, I guess."

Dean's heart is beating out of his chest, and he can't stop clenching and unclenching his fists. He's just... Sam's fucking leaving in three and a half months and graduates in five, now four, days. He's packing up and going out to California to start his apple pie life with a green lawn and a girl and probably a few kiddos along the way. But Dean will still be here. Alone. With no one to watch and talk to. He doesn't think Sam sees how it's affecting him.

But he guesses he shouldn't care about that. His brother _is _graduating and going to a nice ass university for free, and it would be idiotic for him to be upset about that. He's just... not fond of the idea of being with only Dad or by himself completely. Sam, as girly and chick flicky as it sounds, makes him an actual person, as opposed to the robot he typically feels like. And he doesn't want to lose his brother; he fears he'll never see him again.

See, Dean's easy to forget about; he knows that. Dad used to leave him to go hunting at age five, and he had to look after a not yet one year old Sammy for weeks at a time. He was fucking five years old. Most kids can't read or write, but he had to learn how to. Most kids can't change a diaper or burp an infant, but he had to learn how to. Most kids can't shoot a freaking gun at a target hundreds of feet in the distance, but he had to learn how to.

And Sam getting drunk. Don't get him started on that one. This is so sickeningly unlike Sam that it makes him uneasy. He doesn't want to keep doing this anymore, and he's so frustratingly exhausted that he barely has enough energy to move. Sam wavers on his feet and is still smiling stupidly at something on the wall behind him, so Dean goes to drag him to the living room. But Sam shrugs him away a bit forcefully before he can do so.

In a lot of ways, Sam is like Dad. He has his temper, his knowledge, and his use of words. Dad is known for almost immediately hitting the bottle the second he comes home from a hunt (after his inspection of the house, motel, apartment, or whatever it is at the time, of course). He shudders at the memories, one spanning to just two weeks ago, and he subconsciously feels the massive bruise on his back from a boot; he shivers in his own skin.

So, when Sam shoves him away, Dean's eyes turn from pools of anger to puddles of anxiety. He is not a big fan of drunk people, and it frightens him because he knows how strong Dad is when he's under the influence. Sam is already taller and heavier than he is; he could probably beat his ass if he really wanted to. But, his little brother is still his little brother, so he tries once again to help him sit down. He dizzily pushes him away again.

"Ge' off me," he slurs.

"Dude, relax," Dean says gently. "I'm just trying to help you before you pass out."

"Quit!" Sam shouts. "I don't always need your help!"

Dean rolls his eyes, but he tries to push past the uncomfortable feeling that's creeping up on him. "I know, kiddo. But you're about to keel over."

And Sam seemingly loses touch with himself for a second because, when Dean goes to help again, he drives Dean into the kitchen counter. The bruise on his back instantly throbs, but he doesn't even blink at the pain, trying to keep his unaffected demeanor toward his brother, which is just his normal stance. He's Dean Winchester the Brick Wall, so he's driven at all hours of the day to adorn his game face, even when he feels too fucking depressed to move.

"Stop bossing me around! And stop treating me like I'm a kid!"

Dean nods. "Yeah, alright."

This time, he goes to head into the bathroom, shut the door, and probably lock himself in there for the rest of the night until he has to deal with a puking Sam later on in the day, but Sam holds him there with the heels of his hands pushing into his shoulders. "You're such a fucking jerk. You think you own me or somethin'?" he spits. "Newsflash: I won't be here much longer for you pick on and harass! Just wait until how even more pathetic your life is once I leave."

He doesn't quite remember when or how it happens, but the last comment out of his brother's big, fat fucking mouth blows a fuse in his brain. He curls his fist and punches him in the lip with his right hand, not hard enough to knock him over when he's sober, but it knocks him flat on his ass. Sam lays there for what feels like hours before he finally pushes himself up, lip busted open and a thin stream of blood trickling down his now stubbly chin.

There's an anger in Dean's eyes he only sees when Dad gets this way. His best option is to ignore this, not say another word, and drop the whole conversation. Unfortunately for him, Sam's punch to the stomach stings much more than it probably should have. He doubles over, his torso suddenly lit on fire like a piece of dynamite, an explosion setting off inside of him, which leads for him to fall to the floor. Jesus. Never piss off a drunk Sam.

And he tries not to think about Dad and how this has happened before. And he tries not to think about his baby brother turning into such a brutal monster by the hands of alcohol. And he tries not to think about how the same baby brother is leaving in August and will most likely never talk to him again. Tears spill over his cheeks, but he can't help it. He's so done with all of this. Why can't God just do everyone a favor and put him out of his misery?

His right hand is busy gripping at his stomach while the left is steadily trying to hoist his body weight up. But, drunk Sam decides to kick him when he's already down, this time using his boot to step promptly on his wrist and wriggle it in for effect. Dean instantly recoils and holds the injured hand to his chest, whimpering quietly to himself. Sam, right then, collapses on to his knees and falls to the floor, heading banging on to the tile.

Shit. Motherfucker. Please. Please just don't go. He wants to scream his fucking ears off, but Sam's unconscious and won't listen anyway. Tears are pouring down his puffy cheeks. He somehow manages to get himself off the ground, his teeth chattering against each other, and his breathing crazily erratic. Calm. Calm. He needs to calm down. But nothing about this situation is good, and he really needs to use his inhaler. But he also really needs to help Sam.

Despite the agony that is shredding through his lower arm, he musters up the strength in his beyond weary body to drag his brother down the hall to their shared bedroom. He drops him on the bed, takes off his boots, and watches as Sam curls into the pillow. Dean's right arm is tucked protectively over his left, and it takes all of him to not start sobbing. So, instead of taking care of himself, he sits down on the edge of his bed with perfect soldier posture and waits for his brother to need him.

* * *

It's nearly thirteen hours later when Sam stirs. He isn't puking or groveling or moaning, but he does look like he has one killer headache. Dean slides a glass of water and three Advil over to him, wincing at the pain shooting through his hand. It's swollen and a dull shade of purple, and he can't bend his fingers, but he's not going to fuss about it. Everyone in his life has proven that there's no reason to, so he's going to fight through it like a man would.

"Thanks," Sam mumbles, putting his head in his hands.

Dean places a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon down in front of him gently. His brother's lip is split open, but it stopped bleeding a long time ago. Other than that, he looks physically okay. If Sam doesn't remember any of this, it's perfectly and completely alright with him. Afterall, Sam graduates in four days; there's no reason to hold this over his head. Plus, he leaves forever in August, so he has to enjoy these next three months with his brother before he's gone.

Sam takes a tentative bite of his eggs, cringing with the hot food makes contact with his probably sore mouth. "What happened?" he asks, pointing to the wound.

Dean shrugs. "Not sure. You came home like that."

His little brother seems satisfied with that answer because he just goes back to eating his breakfast. Greasy food will further lessen the effects of a hangover, and he should be back to normal by tomorrow. For now though, Sam is going to take it easy the rest of the day and not worry about anything else. His plan is to hide the bruised ribs and injured hand and never mention this to his brother again. He just hopes it works.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says.

"Yeah?"

"Um, about last night... I, uh..."

Dean raises his right hand, signaling for him to stop. "No worries, man. I won't tell Dad."

Sam smiles and shovels more food into his mouth. "Thanks, dude."

And the instant his plate is cleared, Dean grabs him another one. His stomach is hollow, and his heart can't stop beating so quickly, and his breathing has yet to calm down from 1:30 this morning. He doubts he'll be sleeping for the next few nights, but that's okay. Having Sam here with him now is more than worth it. But, he's so fucking exhausted of it all. He turns back around to begin the dishes and lets the tears swelling up in his eyes stream down his flushed cheeks.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, showjumper007. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	79. WillowWinchester (III)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the wonderfully brilliant television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! I really appreciate it! =)

I am so freaking excited for the new episode of _SPN_ tonight! I have been waiting for what feels like centuries! Who else is pumped?!

WillowWinchester requested: "I know that concussions!Dean has been done before, and I can't remember if anyone requested amnesiac!Dean. But I was wondering if you could do a one-shot where Dean gets hit hard in the head by something (you can choose what, I'm not feeling inspired today) and develops mild amnesia along with a few other symptoms of a concussion (drowsiness, nausea, light and noise sensitivity, dizziness, etc.). I'd love to have just the two brothers in this fic, so having this set in seasons 1-3 would be preferable." Great prompt!

I'm going to set this one in season three.

* * *

WillowWinchester (III)

* * *

_February 23, 2008_

He sold his soul for his brother's life. He only received one year to live, as opposed to the typical ten crossroads demons will give their customers. He's on month nine and a half. He has seventy more days to live. He only gets 100,800 more minutes to live on Earth with his little brother before he is ripped apart by a hellhound and dragged to Hell. He keeps trying to tell himself that everything will be okay, – that Sam will be okay – but he isn't all that convinced.

Dean mindlessly dips a fry in ketchup with his right hand, his left cradling his aching head. His eyes are drooping, but the fatigue doesn't match the constant pang of anxiety that ripples through his chest with each passing second. Despite never actually going to Hell before, he has continuous nightmares and, eventually, he's stopped sleeping. He doesn't want to miss anymore of life than he already will, and he wants to spend as much time with Sam as possible.

Sam is munching on a pansy ass salad, reading the newspaper while he pokes at the lettuce. He's going to miss him. Hell, he did it for Sam in the first place. He would give his life right then and there if he knew it would save his baby brother because that's his job. Dad gave him multiple duties as a child and before he passed away, but it was a round circle that always lead back to "watch out for Sammy." And, so that's exactly what he did last May.

Now that time is running short, and he only has about two and a half months to live, he's becoming more nervous. They're no closer to a way out of this than they were when he first sold his soul, and that alone is enough to frighten him. Still, Sam is here, and they're a family, and that's what matters to him. It's getting harder to hide how much this is taking a toll on his body, but there's no way in hell that he's going to give up easily.

"You okay?" Sam asks, glancing over at Dean. His brother has dark purple bags beneath his glazed over eyes, and he keeps dipping the same fry in ketchup but never taking a bite of it. He's definitely zoned out while staring down at his plate. Sam gulps and runs a quick hand through his hair. Dean hasn't been acting right for the past few weeks, and he's sure it has something to do about the deal he made. "Dean," he calls out again, snapping him out of it.

Dean nods. "Yeah. 'm fine, Sammy."

He doesn't bother correcting him. Sammy may be a chubby twelve year old, but he isn't in the mood to ruin anything for his brother right now. If he wants to call him Sammy as a sign of comfort, then so be it. "You look like you're gonna fall asleep right here," he points out. Dean is sluggish, and his reaction to him just saying that is slow and deliberate. He wonders what's going on in that mind of his, but there's no way Dean's going to open up to him.

The older Winchester shrugs. "Tired. I'll be fine."

Sam's only other response is a slight shrug before he pulls out a twenty dollar bill to pay for their meal. While they wait for their waitress to give them their receipt, Dean stares blankly out the window with his chin propped up on his hand, watching the snow pile up on the ground. They're supposed to go salt and burn some restless spirits tonight, but his brother looks like he's in some serious need of rest and TLC, all of which Sam would be happy to provide.

But, cracking open Dean is extremely difficult, especially with his impending deal looming over their shoulders like a dark rain cloud. He isn't so much angry as he is depressed anymore; he moved out of that perpetual, blood sucking rage a few months back, and he's been wallowing in pity and sadness ever since. He doesn't know why Dean chose to save him like this, but, at the same confusing time, he does understand why he did it.

"Ready to go?" Sam asks.

"Sure."

Except, he's really not. He'd rather sit in this shitty diner with his brother for the rest of eternity.

* * *

The graveyard is ridiculously old and run down. Dean isn't quite sure why spirits from the 1800s would be causing a commotion at a local church, but they are, so both of them have to take care of it. He can't escape this sense of growing dread, but it's even worse coupled with the bone deep exhaustion. Dean shuts the trunk more softly than Sam anticipates and has to stop himself from yawning. He isn't really up to this, but it's their sole job in the world.

It's snowing on their journey to plot 182, and Dean's feet are slow and tired. He isn't sure how he's going to manage digging up a grave right now. He walks almost awkwardly close to his brother, touching shoulder to shoulder; it's almost comforting in a sense. He won't be here much longer, and he just hopes Sam knows and can comprehend how much he truly is going to miss him. No matter what though, his decision is not a mistake by any means.

Sam notices how there's not even an inch of space between him and his brother and that Dean is practically walking on top of him. He doesn't mind, but it is weird. He can feel how viciously he's trembling next to him and almost offers to give him the warm hat that's covering his ears, which would ultimately trap in more heat. Dean would freaking murder him, especially since he's already showing signs of being vulnerable tonight; he drops it to be on the safe side.

By the time they arrive at the two plots next to each other, Dean's fingers are trembling visibly through the thick black gloves he's wearing. His breathing is shaky; he can tell by how erratic the puffs of air from the freezing temperatures outside are. Sam has a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, and his pulse is pounding into his ears, but they dig in silence. He hopes the repeated movements of digging will help wake his brother up a bit more.

Dean's arms and legs feel like jello, and it's practically impossible to keep himself calm. He was chewing on his lower lip to help, but he stops once he nearly bites through the bottom of it, drawing blood that he sucks back into his mouth. He sniffles from the cold and yawns into the hole, knowing there's no way Sam can hear it over the clinks and clunks of their shovels. He reaches the casket and could scream in happiness.

Sam isn't sure how it happens or when, but the air around him gets incredibly cold. Not the kind of end of February weather they're experiencing now, but spirit cold. And then, from over five and a half feet in a hole in the Earth, he hears shouting, metal smacking against something hard, and rustling in the snow. His heart sinks into his stomach, he breaks through the coffin, and he immediately pulls himself from the hole, salting and burning this son of a bitch.

His big brother is lying face down in the snow, the white fluffiness turning red around him. He sees the broken shovel on the ground, but he has to ignore that for just a second before the spirit returns. He drowns the rotten corpse in lighter fluid and throws his Zippo into the box. Dean. Shit. He drops down on his knees and is appalled by the at least four inch gash on the side of his head where the shovel collided with his skull, apparently doing a little more than just scraping it.

"Dean!" he shouts, trying to shake him awake, but he knows deep down that it's no use. His brother is out like a freaking light, and there's no way to force him back into consciousness. Without thinking about this shitty situation anymore, he picks him up bridal style with zero hesitation. Dean doesn't stir, and there is blood sticking to both of them. They reach the car, Sam deposits him gently into the backseat, and climbs in to begin the stitching process.

Without some binding, Dean will probably bleed out by the time they get to the motel. The jagged, deep cut is extensive, bad enough for him to really need to shave the area. But he won't do that, mainly because he doesn't have the supplies to right now. He knows he's going to most likely stitch some hairs into the wound, but he doesn't have many options right now. Plus, blood loss and a definite concussion are not a good symptom combination.

He covers him up with a blanket, gets in the driver's seat, and fishtails out of the cemetery.

* * *

_February 24, 2008_

"Who are you?"

Sam readjusts the cold compress on Dean's forehead, willing his unstable temperature to lower. "I'm your brother, Sam." For the majority of the day, Dean has been unable to focus or remember the tiniest of details. At one point, he couldn't even tell you his own name. Amnesia. They've had it on a few occasions when they're smacked in the head really frigging hard, but he ironically can't recall the last time he's dealt with his brother being this crazy.

"Don't have a brother," is all he says.

The younger Winchester nods. "Unfortunately, you do. What do you remember?"

Dean shrugs. "Dunno."

Perfect. Sam sits down on the edge of the opposite bed of his brother's and buries his head in his hands, sighing heavily. Since they got back around two this morning, Dean has been running a mostly low grade temp and can't have an ounce of light anywhere near him. This has made navigating the motel room insanely difficult, especially since it's almost nine at night, and the only illumination he's seen all day is from his laptop screen.

"What'd you say your name was again?"

He exhales once again. "Sam. It's Sam."

"Well, Sam, what do you know about baseball?"

_What the hell?_

But his brother is badly concussed, though... "Not too much."

Dean gives him a watery smile and rolls on to his side to where he's facing this Sam guy. He has no idea who the hell he is, but everything is fuzzy and hazy right now. He would much rather make conversation with this stranger than sit here in silence anymore, even though his head is killing him. "My dad used to tell me that I was gonna go pro," he says proudly. "Said that I was s'posed to teach my baby brother how to play when he grew up."

"Yeah? What happened to that?"

Another shrug. "Mom died, Dad drank, baby brother didn't like me. Wait. What'd you say your name was again?"

"Sam, Dean. It's Sam."

"Huh. That's my brother's name. Well... uh, Sammy anyway."

Shit. Dad said Dean was going to be a professional baseball player; he's heard that story come from his brother before. Of course, they were around six and ten when he would brag incessantly about it, but still. It's one of Dean's memories. And there's no mistaking the whole "Mom dying and Dad drinking" bit. Definitely Winchesters. But, what the hell did he mean by his baby brother not liking him? It's weird to say, but Sam has never _not_ liked Dean.

"That's because I am your baby brother. Dean, it's Sammy."

Dean nods, but it doesn't seem to be going to through that injured brain of his. Sam sits back nervously against his pillow and listens to his hurt brother talk about anything and everything, some of which makes zero sense. He's just freaking happy he's actually speaking, as opposed to the shriveled up, silent mess he's been turning into for the past few weeks. At one point in the conversation, Dean says something that shocks the living shit out of him.

"Weren't you dead? Dunno why... but I remember you dyin'. Stabbing. Some guy..."

Sam stops him right then and there. "Yeah, buddy, but I'm here now. Don't worry about that."

Dean shakes his head, almost in an irritated manner. "How'd you come back? I can't remember how..."

A hollow pit in his stomach forms, and he swallows back the nausea creeping up his throat. He isn't a huge fan of talking about the deal. Sure, it comes up in conversations about how they're going to attempt to fix the problem, but neither of them have actually sat down and told each other how they feel about this fiasco. "Um..." he stutters. He decides to go for the truth. "You sold your soul to a crossroads demon to bring me back."

"Ten years?" he asks quietly. "I only have ten years to live."

Sam gulps and wrings his hands together. "One."

"One?" Dean nearly shoots up in bed.

He nods. "Yeah."

"Uh... How long's it been? Like how much longer do I have?"

Tears spill over his cheeks, and the hiccupping starts. Soon, Sam is damn near hyperventilating, and he wishes he had his coherent, normal big brother here to help with the emotions that are bubbling over the surface. He knows it sounds childish, but, any time used to get upset as a kid, Dean would hug him and tell him that he'll always look out for him. He knows the concussion and memory loss is temporary, but he wants his Dean back.

_How am I supposed to live without you?_

"Two and a half months."

* * *

_February 25, 2008_

"Let it out, bro," Sam coaxes, gently massaging his brother's back with his fingertips. Dean is quivering violently beneath his soft touch, and a sea of yellow and light pink is erupting out of his mouth like a volcano. He can't quite imagine how badly his head has to hurt right now, and the lights in the bathroom are probably burning into his sore eyes. He hasn't been able to talk in his usual voice all day, having to whisper because of Dean's concussion sensitivity.

Eventually, Dean collapses into his chest, vomit dripping off his chin and on to the charcoal hoodie he's swallowed whole in. He wraps himself around his big brother and holds him close, putting his chin in his damp, flat hair. Dean. He doesn't know how he's going to handle being without his brother. More tears threaten to fall, but he sniffles and pushes them away, knowing dealing with his big brother is what he's supposed to be doing right now.

He somehow gets Dean changed into fresh pajamas and carries him in the pitch darkness to his bed. Instantly, the blond manages a death grip around his hand and commands him to stay, so Sam does. He pulls him to where he's laying on his chest as he stares at the wall ahead. He's too afraid to stare at ceilings, otherwise he would have been doing that. Sam expects for Dean's breathing to even out and for him to dip into unconsciousness, but he doesn't.

"Sam?"

Hey, at least he remembers today. That's a real blessing. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. I don't want to... to l-leave you." Dean's voice breaks and grows quieter with each word until he's barely even speaking at all. He feels his long sleeved shirt becoming wet, and he just holds on tightly, surrounding himself in the warmth of his brother's body. In sixty-eight days, this won't be possible, and he'll be entirely and completely alone. This time, the tears do fall, and they're both left sobbing in each other's arms, squeezing on tightly.

"I-I love you, Sammy. Pl-Please don't e-ever forget that."

Sam nods, planting a quick kiss on top of Dean's head. "I love you too, b-buddy."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope this was okay, WillowWinchester! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	80. CarryOn

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the brilliantly amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you so very much for favoriting, following, requesting, reading, and reviewing! =)

CarryOn requested: "Could you write one where Dean gets sick in season 9 after he gets the Mark? It's just something simple like a cold or maybe the flu, but the Mark makes it worse. And maybe you could have him have side effects like needing to kill people more because his immune system is weak, and therefore his control on the Mark is compromised. But of course Sam is there to help him." I'm ready to write some "good guy" Sam for season 9, haha.

This is set in between 9x19 "Alex Annie Alexis Anne" and 9x20 "Bloodlines."

* * *

CarryOn

* * *

_April 24, 2014_

It comes on frighteningly fast. One second, Dean's fine. Then, before Sam's even entirely aware of the situation, he finds his severely asthmatic brother standing over a pot of scalding water on the stove, breathing in the steam to relieve his congestion. He coughs and sputters and gags, and he's hidden beneath a grey towel to where Sam can only see his jeans sagging off of him and his socked feet. "Dean?" he calls a bit louder; sometimes being sick clogs his ears too.

"Hmm?" he hums from beneath the fabric, clearing his throat immediately after. "What?" The inquiry isn't rude or irritated sounding; it's just Dean's normal voice. Good. That means they haven't reached the stage where he's incessantly cranky and acts like a five year old again. He lifts his head up and removes the towel, revealing his red-splotched cheeks and destroyed dark blond hair. He's still rather breathless and visibly shivering.

Sam takes a few steps closer. The end tail of the Mark of Cain can be seen on his brother's arm where his sleeve is pulled up to, and he gulps. They haven't exactly had good luck with that damn thing recently, and, sometimes, it freaks him out. Of course, it isn't _Dean_ that's scaring him; it's what the Mark _does _to Dean that makes him uneasy. He guesses he can equate it to the anxiety his brother must have felt when he was guzzling and chugging demon blood years ago.

"Want to go lie down? You look wrecked."

Dean chuckles. "Nah. Not really. I'll be okay." Sam figures he's probably going to go down an entire bottle of whiskey and then pass out to numb the pain, but he is so tired of him self-destructing by drinking himself to death. He ponders if there's something they could do together while getting his brother to relax without alcohol, but it can't obviously be an activity a sick guy wouldn't be up to. "What're you staring at?" Dean asks.

Sam snaps out of it and shakes his head. "Nothing. Want to watch a movie?"

The older Winchester shakes his head, his smile from earlier disappearing. "I'm just gonna go to my room." He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and coughs into the crook of his elbow as he pads down the hallway. Sam sighs and drops into a barstool as soon as he hears his brother's door click closed. Things... well, things have been rough between the two of them lately. While he's trying to forgive Dean for having Ezekiel possess him, Dean is holding on to that horrible thing he said to him about two months ago. He realizes how wrong he was now that they're here.

Same circumstances, Sam would save Dean because he's worth saving. He couldn't do anything of this without him, and that shouldn't have been taken so lightly or for granted like it has been his entire nearly thirty-one years on Earth. And, now he's fighting to keep his brother from losing it with the Mark of Cain, the same brother who used to be incredibly opposed to killing innocent people. Now, with having held the Blade for the first time, "hot mess" wouldn't even begin to describe him. Dean's definitely struggling, and he's pushing himself away.

And, he knows it sounds terrible, but Sam can't personally blame him. He was a fucking asshole that completely tossed his own flesh and blood to the curb. He left for three weeks and didn't even so much send Dean a text message to see if he was still alive. The kicker is is that, during those twenty-one days, his brother adorned the Mark of Cain to kill Abaddon for Crowley. Since then, that decision has been biting him straight in the ass.

Sam wonders what it would have been like if he had been here for his brother before he accepted the Mark as a permanent tattoo. He could have stopped all of this by just being somewhere in the bunker; it's no secret that Dean handles life better with him there. He's not saying it in a "toot his own horn" kind of way, but in a sense that both of them _need_ each other. The doctor at the mental hospital a few years ago said their relationship was"dangerously co-dependent," and that no longer even begins to cover the half of it. They're way past that.

If he had been there, none of this would have happened.

* * *

He checks on his brother every few hours, who has barricaded himself in his bedroom beneath his comforter. Dean must seriously be trying to take care of this with zero help from him because he's even unearthed the dusty humidifier Sam bought years ago and has it sitting on his bedside table. Clearly, he's taken medication since there's a bottle of Tylenol and some liquid NyQuil next to it. He's surrounded in a sea of tissues, but is still awake.

Dean doesn't seem to mind that he's keeping tabs on him. He doesn't even roll his eyes. It doesn't shock him; Dean barely gives any form of a reaction anymore. When he does, it's with that Goddamned Blade, and it's always white-hot rage that consumes him to the very core. He tries to continuously shake off the strange vibe he's picking up from his brother, but nothing is working at this point. Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to do anymore.

This time, his brother is half-asleep, eyes drooping closed as he curls deeper beneath the blankets. His flushed cheeks are smushed into the pillow, and he coughs and sniffles every couple of seconds. Sam's not going to lie; Dean looks completely open and vulnerable and about ten years younger, especially since his recent shaving of the beard that took over the lower half of his face. He glances over at Sam, who is standing in the doorway. "Come to check on me again?"

Sam nods. "Just came to see if you needed anything."

Dean adjusts to where his hand is pressed beneath his cheek on the pillow, and Sam can't fight the sick feeling in his stomach. What the hell is wrong with him? Normally, Dean gets a little... weird when he is under the weather. He's clingy without directly letting him know he wants affection, and, when he isn't majorly ill, he'll whine until he's blue in the face or damn near talk Sam's ear off. Dean's not particularly sick, maybe a simple cold or what's turning into the flu, so he should be near the cuddling stage or at least be chatting up a storm.

"How about that movie?" Sam asks, moving to sit down on Dean's bed. He knows that his brother won't make it through an entire film, especially since he's damn near passed out right now, but he needs a reason to stay here with him for a bit. He doesn't know what's up with him, but, for some reason, he just really needs his brother in a way he can't exactly explain, but, like he said earlier, he's worried because they aren't on the best terms.

Dean shrugs. "Whatever." But he immediately flinches and scoots away when Sam lies down on the memory foam mattress, rolling to where he's lying on his back instead of his side, pressing a tissue to his leaky nose. Sam tries to pretend that him moving away didn't damn near shatter his heart into a billion tiny pieces. He doesn't say anything else; he just changes the channel to one of their movie packages, settling on some action flick.

Unfortunately, Dean never does relax, and he never does fall asleep.

* * *

_April 25, 2014_

Sam awakens to an empty bed. He stretches out like a cat and yawns ferociously, rubbing his eyes. He instantly hops up and figures Dean is in the bathroom since it's only about five in the morning, but the door is open, and there are no lights on. His stomach drops to his feet, and he can't help but feel those familiar surges of panic course through his veins. Where is Dean? And why would he get up when he isn't feeling well?

He begins to search ruthlessly throughout the bunker, checking everywhere he's seen his brother within the last few weeks. It's almost as if he's vanished without a trace, except his boots, wallet, cell phone, gun, knife, and everything else he would never leave without are all here. He runs his hands through his hair and chews on his bottom lip, his head spinning in every direction possible. Somehow he stumbles into the one of his last resort stops in this huge place: the dungeon.

Unknowingly to Dean, that's where he and Cas have the Blade hidden right now. Holy fuck! Sam darts into one of the several rooms in there, and that's where he finds his brother fingering the Blade with such delicacy. The red Mark on his right arm is fucking glowing, but it's almost as if Dean is entirely calm and at peace. His eyes are closed, and he's standing at a side angle compared to Sam; he wonders if he hears or sees him.

"Dean," he coaxes.

His brother immediately shoots a darting glare at him. "What?" he hisses.

Sam puts his hands up in the air, surrendering to something that hasn't even happened. "Put the Blade down."

Dean starts to pace back and forth, coughing every so often and wiping his nose on his long sleeved shirt. His cheeks are still sickly flushed, and, if he didn't know any better, he would chalk this up to a feverish sleepwalking episode, which has been known to happen to his brother. But this is the Mark and the Blade that are affecting him like this. Maybe it's because he is ill, but, either way, this is starting to seem like a step back instead of a step forward.

"I-I..." Dean stammers, dropping the Blade on the ground, the weapon clinging and clacking as it makes contact with the concrete floor. "Sammy," he murmurs, his face suddenly losing of all its color, turning a pale shade of grey. Sam acts fast and catches his brother before he falls, wrapping his arms around him. "Can't control it 'nymore. Blade. Mark." The younger Winchester just holds him tighter and makes sure he knows that he's here with him.

"Shh. Shh. Don't worry about that now. We gotta focus on getting you better."

And Dean is still alarmingly calm, and it's nearly more frightening than him being entranced in his delusional rages that the Mark typically associates with. He doesn't know what in the hell is going on, but he knows that this is Dean reaching out. This time, he's not going to mess it up, and he will be there for his big brother, even if it kills him. He drags him back down the hall to his room and lays him down gently in bed. Dean grabs his hand.

"Get it out of here," Dean whispers. "I can't fight it off much longer."

"Fight what?"

"Anger, Sam. The fucking hatred I feel toward everyone and everything. 's bad tonight." His voice is strong, but hoarse and scratchy. Sam wipes his drippy nose with a barely used tissue and pulls the covers up to his shoulders with his now free hands. "'m a monster, Sammy. Please don't let this keep happening." Sam doesn't even want to think far enough ahead to figure out exactly what he's talking about. What did Cain say to him when he gave him that Mark?

Sam shakes his head. "Hey, let's be rational about this here. When did you start feeling all... angry?"

"Since the Mark."

"Yeah, but when did it get really bad and felt like you couldn't control it?"

Dean shrugs. "Early yesterday."

He nods. Okay, this is progress. Maybe Dean is having a hard time reigning in Mark because his immune system is working up to par. Perhaps there's some kind of switch in his mind that is flipped off when he's ill. It makes sense to Sam, especially since the damn thing is more supernatural than logical. "I don't think this is you, dude. I think if we get your fever down and you start feeling better then these feelings will go away."

"But how do you know? Sam, I don't trust myself."

Sam smiles ever so slightly. "I trust you, Dean. And that's enough for the both of us."

* * *

_April 26, 2014_

He's spent the better part of the past two days hovering relentlessly over his brother, whose temperature has steadily dropped to below 100 degrees. He's congested as hell, and the humidifier has to follow him around from room to room to ensure his breathing doesn't become too compromised. With the fever practically gone, Dean's mood has improved drastically from wanting to murder and slaughter to being a bit on the grumpy side.

Currently, Dean is sleeping on his stomach on the leather couch, drooling lightly, his fingertips brushing the hardwood floor. He's snoring and seems to be in a deep sleep, but Sam can't risk his temperature returning, especially since he knows and can tell Dean isn't over whatever this is just yet. He has to wake him up to make him take some medicine. He's almost positive his anger freaking quadruples and goes to homicidal rather quickly with the Mark when he's running a fever, so his new task is to always make sure Dean is taking care of himself.

"Hey," Sam whispers, gently nudging his brother's shoulder.

"Nhhmmm," Dean mumbles, stretching out and blinking open fever free eyes. "G'way."

"Sorry. No can do. Time for meds."

Dean nods and slowly sits up, the fever clearly taking a physical toll on his body. He swallows the NyQuil and Tylenol with no hesitations and collapses back to his pillows, grabbing the TV remote on the way down. "Want to watch somethin' with me?" Dean asks, almost cautiously and like he's afraid of the answer. But, one thing his brother needs to realize is that he could never honestly be scared of Dean because Dean is Dean, forever and always.

"Sure," he says, going to sit down in the recliner.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you, um... lay with me?"

Holy cow. He doesn't want to know where that came from or why it happened, but he can't recall the last time Dean's actually asked. Sam doesn't hesitate and crawls in behind his brother on the couch, spooning him. Dean snuggles closer and lets out a sigh of content. No matter what happens between them, he knows differently now. There is nothing on this planet more important to him than his brother, and he would give anything and everything for him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, CarryOn. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	81. EmilyAckles

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

I'm having to post this one super early because I'm moving out of my dorm today!

Here's some sucky news: I won't have Internet from May 8 to May 20 or May 21 since I will be home from college. I will still try to update, but it will take a frustratingly long amount of time because it means that I have to type out the chapters on my iPhone. I used to do this all the time for my other stories, but I haven't had to do it in what feels like forever. So, if my updates are only every two days or so, I am incredibly sorry. Typing out 2,000 to 3,000 (sometimes more) words on a phone makes it pretty hard, time consuming, and tedious.

EmilyAckles requested: "Can you write one where Dean and Sam get stuck somewhere on a hunt? Maybe in the woods or on a mountain and can't get back to the Impala for some reason. Dean had a cold earlier in the day, but of course hid it from Sam and went on the hunt anyway. But when they get stuck, the sun goes down, and it gets cold, Dean gets worse, and Sam has to take care of him with little to no supplies to do so." Lovely prompt!

I am going to set this request in season one.

* * *

EmilyAckles

* * *

_November 14, 2005 _

Dean is so sore that he isn't sure it's possible for him to move. The blankets are too warm and inviting, and his head is snuggled in a perfect position on his pillow. He literally feels zapped of all energy and just keeping his eyes open is enough of a struggle. But Sam is already in the shower and proceeding to get ready for the day, and he knows that he has to somehow pull himself together. He guesses the first step is to actually get out of bed.

But that's easier said than done. His vision is blurry, he's extremely dizzy, and the mattress is beckoning for him to collapse back into it. He figures that if he told Sam how under the weather he's feeling that he wouldn't be angry, but that would mean twiddling their thumbs until he got better. And Sam isn't exactly in the best mental and emotional state right now with having lost Jess, the love of his life, a mere twelve days ago. Dean can't do that to him.

He throws the comforter off of his aching limbs, wrapping his arms around his torso the second harsh, cold air knocks into him. He fell asleep bundled in warm pajamas last night after his scalding hot shower, but all he feels are ice cubes jabbing at him. His teeth chatter, and his legs shake and wobble as he makes his way over to his duffel bag, pulling out a new set of under thermals, wool socks, a thick sweater, and a pair of worn out blue jeans.

Dean speeds up his getting ready process when he hears Sam turn the shower water off. He quickly pulls on his clothes, even though every fiber of his being is protesting viciously. His head is pounding, and how is nose is beginning to drip. He sighs and is about ready to sit back down on the bed when the bathroom door opens, revealing a still soaking wet Sam. "Hey," he says. "Glad you're up, Sleeping Beauty." He guesses he's referring to the fact that he slept way longer than he typically does. He went to bed at ten last night, and it's nearly nine in the morning now.

The older Winchester doesn't bother with a response and kicks himself for that. Without snarky comebacks, it leads Sam to believe something is up with him, which is the last thing he wants. Dean isn't really in the mood to talk, but he's going to have to if he's going to portray that he's okay. He hopes he can still play the role convincingly; he used to be awesome at hiding illnesses when he was with Dad. But that may just be because Dad was oblivious.

It's too late to say anything or give a reaction now, so he doesn't bother. Instead, he follows Sam, who gathered his clothes, into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The mint feels nice at the back of his sore throat, but even the repetitive motion of moving his arm with the toothbrush is enough to exhaust him. He gels his hair as best as he can, but his fingers are trembling. Last comes what he's most concerned about: contacts. His eyes feel swollen and puffy, which typically means he shouldn't wear them. But, in order to let Sam know that he's his usual self today, he's going to have to suck it up and do it. He blinks, and he can feel them there, and it's a bit painful.

But, still, there's no reason to worry his brother. Sam is going through enough already as it is, and the tragedy doesn't need to be coupled with the fact that he's sick. He's handled this all by himself for years, but it is a bit different when he has an extremely smart and observant brother standing or sitting next to him at all hours of the day. As long as he sticks to the plan, he should be fine. He just hopes he can make it through the hunt.

"So, what about that Wendigo?" he asks.

* * *

Outside, it's freezing. Way too chilly for Dean's fragile skin. No amount of hugging himself seems to help, and he can barely focus because he's shivering so hard. His fingers are trembling, even though they're tucked deep inside his dad's zipped up leather jacket and buried in thermal gloves. He is so freaking sick of walking toward this Goddamn monster, and the elevation of the slight mountain they're strolling up is making him dizzy and out of breath.

He should have never came out here; at least not when he's feeling like this. He is beyond ready to fall face first back into some shitty motel bed and sleep for the rest of eternity, but that clearly isn't an option. Dean's whole body is aching and quaking and is screaming for rest, but Sam is peppier than usual, so it's a bit harder to keep up. Plus, his congestion has only grown steadily worse throughout the day, and he's fighting a losing battle with his asthma.

"Dude, that's like the tenth time you've had to use that thing," Sam points out. They, thankfully, stop to rest against a couple of trees. Dean sinks down to the ground and instantly puts his spinning head in his hands, trying his hardest to focus on breathing. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" Worry rides each word, and he can't help but roll his eyes. This has been the worst idea he's had in a long time, but it's too late to go back now.

He shrugs. "Just... tired..." he wheezes out, pressing down on the canister once more before putting it in his pocket.

"You look sick," Sam says.

Once again, he shrugs, but he doesn't verbally tell him what's wrong. It doesn't take long before Sam's bare hand is on his forehead, and he's too weak and exhausted to squirm away. His fingers are tiny heaters, and he wishes he could keep them there forever. Dean is so tired that he doesn't even mind when Sam sits down next to him what could been deemed as awkwardly close for brothers. He's practically on top of him, and he couldn't care less.

"Why didn't you say something? This is really dangerous." He pulls the knitted cap off of his head and places it on top of Dean's. Yes. Warmth. It doesn't last for very long, but that sixty seconds is all it takes to remind him that there's his baby calling his name. Only, they're about six or seven miles from the car, and it would take forever to get back, especially with him feeling this poorly. He is damn near tears, and he wants to freaking get out of here.

"Didn't want to worry you." He doesn't add in the parts about him being a typical overly concerned big brother. Sam has been handling Jess's death better than he expected, but, since about the age of fifteen, he's less willing to share what's going on in his mind. He undoubtedly inherited that trait from Dean, but at least he's a little more on the open side when things truly matter and count. "I'm sorry," he mumbles sincerely, not looking his brother in the eye.

Sam wraps his arm around his shoulder and pulls him in close. The warmth of his body feels nice, but it's almost as if nothing will calm how quivering the rest of him is. Until they get in the Impala and put the key in her ignition, he will probably be nothing but a mass of freezing coldness, and that is so uncool with him. He dreams of a hot water bottle to snuggle to his stomach and to be able to cuddle his little brother with no questions asked.

"Don't be sorry, buddy. We need to get you out of here, though."

And, almost as if God is laughing in their faces, a torrential thunderstorm strikes, and Dean curls in closer to Sam, tucking his knees up to his chin. He hears Sam muttering curse words as he bundles their two backpacks beneath the tall tree they're nestled under. Great. Just freaking wonderful. What the hell are they supposed to do now? Drops of water pour on them, but it's at least a smidge better than being out in the middle of it.

Dean coughs harshly into the crook of Dad's leather jacket, his chest rattling harder with each breath. His nose is dripping just as much as the damn sky. What a frigging mess. His only option is to scoot closer to his baby brother, burrowing in on him as much as possible. Sam holds him tighter and tries to shield them from the rain. "We're gonna need to find shelter," Sam says through the downpour. "I think I saw a cave a while ago."

The older Winchester nods. "Okay," he replies hoarsely.

"Do you think you can walk?"

"Mmhmm," is the only thing he musters up before hoisting himself into a standing position.

This is going to suck ass.

* * *

By the time they reach the cave about two miles later, Sam is carrying Dean because he can't walk anymore. He can feel the fever burning through his skull and picking at just about everything he can imagine. The rain has let up a little, and he's grateful that Sam is wearing a waterproof coat. His head is lulled on to his brother's chest, and, when he's set on the cold ground of the cave, he winces and tries to curl in on himself.

"Calm down, Deano," he whispers, removing the soaking wet beanie from his hair. "We really gotta get you warm and dry, man."

And he isn't exactly sure what's going on anymore because his eyes just won't stay open. He doesn't even mind that his nose is leaking on to his jacket and that his coughing has grown to a harsh rattle every few seconds. Somehow, his genius baby brother builds a fucking fire using slightly damp wood and the lighter fluid they were going to drown the Wendigo in before their hunt went up in flames. And the fire feels so magnificent.

With the fire started, Sam begins to remove his clothes one layer at a time. Tears stream down his face, ones that he literally can't help or try to push back even if he tried. He's done with this entire day, and he wants Sam to freaking coddle him until he bleeds or cries or keels over or whatever. He tries to focus on anything other than being stripped down into his light grey under thermals and socks, and he's so desperate for warmth that he would do anything.

"Shh, Dean," Sam coaxes, noticing how hard he's sobbing. He feels his brother slide around him and tuck his face into his heater of a chest, and the two of them stay like that for what feels like centuries. Every part of Dean is in agony, his nose is driving him crazy, and he can't stop sputtering and gagging. He lets Sam rub his back until he's in almost this drowsy state that he can barely recognize, his eyes drooping dangerously closed. "It's okay. Go to sleep."

And so he does.

* * *

_November 15, 2005_

His mind is so fuzzy and blank that he can't even tell you how he made it to the car in the first place. He knows Sam carried him the entire way, and he knows that he feels no better today than he did yesterday. The storm is gone, replacing it with sunshine, mud, and a brisk breeze that hurts his chest every time he breathes. He coughs and immediately snuggles into the interior of the Impala's backseat, more tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I hope you know that you aren't leaving the motel for at least a week," Sam says playfully.

He nods into the backseat. "No kidding."

The drive to the motel is pleasant, and the actual heat surrounding every inch of his body is spectacular. He never manages to fall asleep, especially since they weren't that far away from the building in the first place. Sam carries him in bridal style, and he pulls out brand new, clean pajamas for him to wear; he could freaking kiss his brother right now. He's so incredibly thankful for everything he's done for him the past twenty-four hours.

He wobbles to the bathroom on shaky legs and lets the water go as hot as it can. The steam alleviates the congestion in his lungs, and the coughing stops momentarily. He gets out, dries off, and bundles into the boxers, sweatpants, hoodie, and socks before he exits the area. Sam shoves NyQuil, antibiotics, and Tylenol into his system before wrestling him into bed. For the first time, he feels okay, not too good, but also not nearly as bad as before.

"Sammy?" he calls when he watches his brother start to head into the bathroom for his shower. "Thanks."

The younger Winchester nods and smiles. "Don't mention it."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you liked it, EmilyAckles! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	82. chillywinterbreeze (II)

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the amazingly awesome television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for favoriting, following, requesting, reviewing, and reading! =)

chillywinterbreeze requested: "Can I have a part two to this?" This will be a continuation of chapter 52, which I wrote for HiddenintheShade. I would recommend going back and reading it (as I will too, haha) to figure out what happened in that one-shot. Basically, it is a story about Sam and Dean's relationship in season four. Dean gets hurt and tries to hide it, and, in the end, Sam never does realize how poorly he's treated his brother and refuses to apologize, so Dean really doesn't want anything to do with this version of Sam anymore.

I am adding in the last part to jog all of our memories; this will help me zone in on the task at hand a bit more. =)

* * *

chillywinterbreeze (II)

* * *

_March 31, 2009_

Dean's sporting two blue casts over his wrists from knuckles to elbows. Three fingers are broken on his right hand. And, during this time, he doesn't say another word to Sam. He doesn't show how hurt he actually is, both mentally and physically. Sam wonders what he had said that was so upsetting. This is the kind of shit Dean pulls when he's at his most vulnerable and genuinely needs his help. But, Sam is so not in the mood to help his brother. Again.

But, since Dean is far-gone and high on pain pills, Sam helps him into the motel room. He strips him into just his boxers and a t-shirt. His brother won't look him in the eyes. Tension riddles every space in the room, and Sam almost loses it right then and there. Why does this always happen to him? Why can't Dean grow up and accept the fact that he's doing all of this for the greater good? Afterall, he's the only one who can stop the damn Apocalypse.

"Want to get under the covers?" Sam asks, watching Dean tentatively sit down on his bed.

He shakes his head, but doesn't say anything else.

"What about more meds?"

No response.

"How about a pillow to elevate your hands a bit? I could put an ice pack on them to relieve some swelling."

Nothing.

* * *

_April 1, 2009_

It's April Fool's Day, and "fool" doesn't even begin to describe how Dean feels. He can't even fucking bathe himself, and Sam doesn't seem care about how much pain he's in. But, he is so sick of complaining that he guesses he should just shut the hell up, even in his own mind. His head is the only place where he feels safe disclosing personal information, especially since Dad never listened, Sam used to listen, and the only one he could call and talk to is Bobby, but he would tell him to grow some balls, stop being such a priss, and tell Sam how he feels.

Basically, he's down to being alone again. If it weren't for his destroyed wrists, he would be perfectly okay with that, but two casts make doing nearly anything impossible. So far, he's been lying in bed and pretending that he doesn't feel a damn thing, but, honestly, this shit fucking hurts. He can't bend any of the fingers on his left hand, and his thumb, index, and middle finger are shattered on his right. Dean exhales loudly to no one.

The thing is that Sam left a while ago, sneaking out to go see his demon booty call a little after midnight. He thought that he had been sleeping, but, per typical Sam-ness these past few months, he neglected to hear if his breathing had evened out all the way. He was close; it's true. But Sam quietly scooted away from his chair, put on a light jacket, and clicked the door shut before making sure. Rookie mistake. He's waiting for him to come back like some petulant child.

Only, when he does come back, he's fucking miserable. Sam has always been a downer, but his overall cockiness and being a straight asshole has moved him into the major dick category; he used to laugh and smile at his crankiness, but now Dean can hardly stand it. Being around his brother has turned into nothing short of a nightmare. He has this irrational fear, though. It keeps him up late at night and makes him want to scream until he's blue in the face or shut down.

He's afraid Sam won't come back. Go run off with Ruby. Start a little demon family. Leave him in the dust. Like Stanford. He's paranoid that Sam will continue to think he's useless (which, right now, he totally is) and just run. Dean wonders why Sam keeps coming back to him, despite seemingly not being interested in him in the slightest. But, for now, he figures it's just because he's kind of handicapped at the moment; Dean has news for him though.

The older Winchester is going to find a way to not let Sam help him. He doesn't want it or need it, especially if he's going to be smug about it. When Dean was seventeen, he shattered his leg when a werewolf tossed him down a flight of concrete stairs. He was in a cast for eight weeks and had to use crutches for ten until the mobility in his driving leg recovered. During this entire time, thirteen year old Sammy, as moody as he was, would play cards with him or watch movies.

On top of entertainment, Sammy helped him freaking take a bath, propping up his leg on the tub and covering it in black garbage bags. He would rub this gel stuff underneath his arms that soothed the raw rash that spread rapidly due to the crutches. He would open doors for him and cater to his every whim. If Dean wanted a sandwich or a bag of chips, one better believe that his younger brother would have it in front of him in a jiff. But this isn't Sammy.

Sam won't get anywhere near him with medicine or try to help him accomplish tasks. Dean doesn't care if he's unable to unbutton his fucking pants; he's going to, somehow, make it happen. When Sammy was a sophomore in college, he managed to do everything with a busted collarbone on his dominant side. He can make a repeat performance. Sam doesn't want to help him anyway, so he's not going to be coddled just for the sake of it.

It's nearly four in the morning, and Dean is quivering with exhaustion. The pain pills aren't knocking him out like they should. Or maybe he's thinking too much. Either way, his wrists are pulsing beneath his casts; it's so forceful that he can feel the vibration throughout his entire body. He is rolled protectively on his side, his left wrist padded by a pillow and his right right next to it. His mind is fuzzy, and he can't see a damn thing even with the TV on.

To be honest, he isn't feeling so hot, either. A little achy and almost feverish, but he chalks that up to no sleep, not having taken his medication in a while, and an overall crappy last two days. He wants to get knocked the fuck out so he doesn't have to remember a damn thing about this place. Perhaps a nightmare about his time in Hell would be better. He practically is living in Hell, anyway. Hell is where there's no Sam. And, when there's no Sam, there's no Dean.

He jumps when the door begins to open, jarring both of his wrists. He winces and hisses and doesn't even both to fake being asleep. It's not like Sam cares what he thinks about this anyway. "Hey," Sam says nonchalantly, taking off his jacket like he wasn't out fucking a demon and using his freaky mind thing. "Why're you still up?" He hears his brother toe off his boots and watches the light flicker on. His brain is confused by it and wants it off immediately.

Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't feel like making small talk. He would roll over to face the other direction, giving him a physical and mental cold shoulder, but his body is in far too much pain for that. Sam shrugs, turns off the light, and falls into bed, grabbing the remote. Jesus Christ. If he could, he would walk the fuck out of here right now. Dean's at this point where anything and everything is going to piss him off, and he wants to be out of this mood and into feeling nothing.

Afterall, that's what he does best.

* * *

He finally stirs a little after five in the afternoon with his entire being protesting. He wants to get out of bed, shower, and make himself somewhat useful with maybe research or something, but he's still so damn tired. Sam is no longer curled into the bed next to his and is typing away on his laptop. Thankfully, Dean can just feel that he's not overly irritated at the moment, and he doesn't feel much else other than actual discomfort from his broken wrists.

In his mind, he tries to figure out how he's going to handle this showering business solo. He knows he's going to have to wrap the garbage bags that Sam bought yesterday around them. It shouldn't be too hard getting his left to wrap around his right, but he has three broken fingers on his right, which makes gripping anything to coax around his left difficult. However, he thinks he can do it successfully on his own, even if it takes what feels like forever.

Dean gets himself out of bed easily, using his legs to him up. He can sense Sam's eyeballs staring and following him everywhere, and it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He isn't in the mood for criticism, which is how this new version of Sam seems to hold conversations lately. He grabs a t-shirt, boxers, and a pair of loose fitting jeans with his barely bendable and still swollen fingers and makes it into the bathroom without a hitch.

He somehow, by the grace of whatever, is able to strip himself with only a shit ton of pain to follow. Dean sinks on to the bathroom floor and pulls his knees to his chest, placing his head in between. In and out. In and out. His heart is racing into his chest, and his wrists and fingers protest with each and every movement. How in the hell is he supposed to do this? If anything, he wishes he would have broken his frigging leg or arm or something like that.

Dean is breathing so heavily that he knows he's bound to pass out. His heart is quivering and pumping and wildly beating harshly. Shit. Please. Come on. Panic rises and seeps into his veins, and, for whatever reason, he can't make himself calm down. Sam. He needs Sam. Only he doesn't want Sam. At all. But he can't do this alone. This is damn near impossible. He can't bend his fucking fingers or take control of his fucking life or man up to face their problems.

_Breathe. It'll be okay. _

"Dean!"

There's banging at the door, but there's no way in hell he can answer it. His mind is wavy, and his vision is blurring all over the place. Lifting his head from his knees causes his breath to get caught in his throat, and he can't move without a massive amount of pain. But doesn't want Sam to come in here to begin with. He'll make everything worse, and Dean doesn't want to be angry with his brother anymore; he wants to make this go away.

Literally the only way he knows how to do that is to shut down. He's got to move on from Sam like he did during the Stanford years, and he has to get the fuck out of here. Maybe he'll work on that once he's not in the middle of passing out every few seconds and can actually use both of his hands. Sam doesn't want him around, anyway. Not really at least. With him gone, he can focus on hunting and using his power with Ruby without having to worry about him.

He isn't worthy of that to begin with.

"Dean!"

And, somehow, Sam is sitting on the floor next to him, holding his shoulders. His face makes contact with his chest, and tears begin to soak his t-shirt. He doesn't know where the waterworks are coming from, and he wants to stop them, but he can't. His body is collapsing and crumbling all around him. Soon, there will be nothing more left than the skeleton of a coward who won't stand up in the fucking Apocalypse and fight.

"Shh, dude," Sam whispers, rubbing his back while Dean cradles his wrists toward his own chest. "Shh, buddy." And, for a split second, he's Sammy again. Dean melts into the familiar touch and relishes how wonderful it feels to be wrapped up his arms and protected. "You need to calm down." He's hiccupping and sobbing and on the verge of throwing up, but he can't make any of it stop. Sammy. It's Sammy. And he doesn't care that it's only temporary.

* * *

It's nearly nine at night when Dean attempts to holding on to a slice of pizza with two broken wrists. He iced the fingers on his left hand earlier, and he's gained by some dexterity by using them when he's under the influence of his Vicodin, which stretches them out and makes them easier to maneuver. It feels weird not to be able to bend either wrist, but he may be a lefty when all of this is said and done because how heavily he has to rely on those working fingers.

Sam is across the table, a pensive expression written across his permanently pinched face. Dean isn't really hungry, but he has to pass off as being fine, so he chokes down a few bites. Plus, proving to his brother that he can eat by himself is, believe it or not, a milestone, particularly after the episode in the bathroom from earlier. When Dean Winchester breaks, it tends to be nasty and ugly, but he's a bit better in the end; he can handle his emotions more.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks him quietly. There isn't a hint of anger or annoyance in his voice.

Dean nods. "Yeah."

It's the first word he's said to him in nearly two and a half days. Like he said, he hasn't been in a chatty mood. Here lately, prior to the accident, he's only been speaking when spoken to, kind of like how it was when he hunted with Dad before he died. Dad taught him to shut his ass up at the tender age of four, and it's always a concept that has stuck with him. Not to mention, Sam hasn't exactly wanted to hear his voice either, and he could just tell by the way he rolled his eyes when he opened his mouth or shook his head when he answered a question.

"I... I don't think you are."

Dean shrugs. "Don't know what to tell you. I'm fine."

"You know I can see right through you."

He responds with another shrug, but doesn't actually bother responding with words.

Sam sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. "I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"For what?"

"Don't act like you don't know. For being an asshole."

"You weren't an asshole," is all he says.

Sam stands up from the table, violently pushing his plate of pizza toward Dean. He begins to pace around the room, and the older Winchester places his aching hands on a pillow in his lap. He contemplates getting up and going to lay down in bed, but he's not too sure he should move right now. Jesus. Sam is so much like Dad that it's almost nauseating. That's the exact same thing he used to do when they, specifically Dean, stepped over the line.

"How can you say that? You broke your fucking wrists, and I don't even want to help you! If it's annoying to me, then you should easily be able to tell."

Dean isn't sure what to say, so he just shrugs again, glaring down at his lap.

"Jesus Christ. This is hopeless. Just say what you need to say to me, Dean!"

"No."

Sam's eyebrows rise. "No?"

"It's okay, Sam. I've gotten past it, and I'm not going to bother you about the whole Ruby thing anymore." He winces when he actually calls her by her name. Like his plan from earlier, he's done caring and is going straight back to shoving each and every emotion he has all the way from the top of his head to the sole of his shoe from now on. "You're an adult, and it's about time I start treating you like one." He can barely get those words out either.

The truth is, Sam is forever going to be his little brother. And, now, he feels like a complete and utter failure of an older brother since Sam is making this crucial mistake. He shouldn't be trusting a demon with the whole Apocalypse now thing, but he is tired of constantly caring. It's exhausting, and he works better without his feelings anyway. There's nothing to give if there isn't anything to take in the first place and vice versa.

"Dean, cut the crap."

"It ain't crap. Can we please just eat now?"

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, looking extremely skeptical.

"C'mon. The pizza's getting cold."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry for that horrible ending. I hope this was okay, chillywinterbreeze. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	83. DarknessofSupernatural86

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

DarknessofSupernatural86 requested: "What if the Mark of Cain starts making Dean sick and feverish to the point that he starts hallucinating about his time in Hell? Sam tries to keep him grounded while he tries to bring his fever down. Cas can be there as well. Set during this season." The Mark sure is a powerful thing, isn't it? It's really shaping this entire season, and I am so extremely nervous to see how it plays out in the end. But, as SPN fans and family, we all know that the finales are heartbreaking and cause puddles and puddles of tears!

* * *

DarknessofSupernatural86

* * *

_October 21, 2014_

It's midnight, and they're exhausted when they arrive back home at the bunker. Dean has all but passed out in the passenger seat, conked out against the glass window and snoring quietly. Sam already taped his brother's two broken fingers together, so he just has to get him to bed now. But, that's easier said than done since he's pretty sure he tore a muscle or two in his back and neck, which makes getting out of the car seem like he's running a freaking marathon.

Werewolves. Nasty sons of bitches that Sam can't stand. Well, he doesn't exactly look forward to any encounters with supernatural beings, but these heart-munching dogs get old fast. Both of them took down a pack of twelve, which resulted in a ton of being tossed and thrown around like rag dolls. At one point, Sam was knocked out, leaving Dean to fend the remaining seven off of him on his own. By the time the younger Winchester came to, his brother was in big trouble.

But, they won the battle, just like they typically do. Sam is a bit concerned, though. Dean's sporting the Mark of Cain, and he's much quieter and subtler than he used to be; usually, his brother is upfront and abrasive. He wonders there is something going on that Dean isn't telling him, especially since this was the first time in nearly a week that he agreed to leave the bunker. Shouldn't his brother be fighting anger and rage as opposed to being so calm?

Not that he's complaining. He isn't sure what's going on right now. Dean was recently cured from being a demon, and he hasn't exactly been chalked full of snarky comebacks or temper-filled episodes as Sam imagined. His overall demeanor has been strange, but, overall, way more inviting than his brother as a supernatural creature they've been trained to kill since Sam was an infant. He guesses he'll just have to get used to this version of his brother.

"Dean," he whispers, shaking his shoulder. "We're home." Since Purgatory, he has to watch doing this because it invokes fits of panic and anxiety. One time, his shorter brother decked him straight in the nose and broke it because he "snuck up on him." However, if he is quiet and gentle about it, he can typically coax his brother out whatever mind-numbing nightmare he's dove into. He wants Dean, more than anything, to remember he's safe with Sam, Mark or not.

His older brother's eyes flutter open, revealing them to be bloodshot and a little on the glassy side. He starts to rub his eyes with his fingers, but Sam carefully stops him, re-informing him that his index and middle finger on his right hand are fractured. "Batcave?" he questions, yawning immediately after. Sam notes the headache due to the squinting in the darkness and how pale he looks in the extremely dim garage light above.

"Yeah. Time to hit the sack."

Dean nods and lethargically pulls himself out of the Impala, only to lean his head heavily into his pillow arms on the roof. Sam can tell he's absolutely zapped of all energy, but his shoulder is just now healing up, so there's no way he can risk carrying him. Come to think of it, he isn't quite sure why he took a case so fresh from being out of a sling, but he's a Winchester; it's his job. But Dean looks desperate for assistance, so Sam grabs his elbow instead.

The dark blond Winchester follows next to him, barely picking up his feet as he stumbles down the hall of the bunker. There are dark, deep purple smudges beneath his eyes that have been there for weeks now, but Sam decides not to say anything about them. Dean should really shower, much like he's going to soon, before he lies down, but he isn't sure he can make his brother move more than he wants to. So, he pulls the comforter back on his bed instead.

Sam selects a clean t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants for his brother to relax in. He stands close by just in case he needs him, but Dean gets the articles of clothing off and on with no real hitches. His back and chest are marred with red and purple bruises, but he knows he can't fight with him tonight about taking care of himself. He coaxes Dean into bed, pulling the blanket over the top of his exhausted form. Worry rises up in his throat.

This isn't right. He's watched his brother pass out from fatigue much worse than this, and he never lets Sam do this for him. The only time he lets him is when he's... Oh, shit. Dean hasn't been out of his room, besides tonight, in about a week, hasn't really eaten, and sleeps a hell of a lot more than he should be. Crap. Sam places a tentative hand on his forehead and feels the immense warmth soaking through his palm. Sick. Great.

Only, it isn't like him to be this calm when he's ill. Normally, Dean squirms and whines and fights him until he can no longer utter another word. Now, his brother has his hand tucked between his fluffy pillow and his scorching cheek, lips already parted. Sam isn't going to shovel medicine down his throat, even though he should. For now, he'll let his older brother sleep, especially since he's just happy he's freaking human.

* * *

"SAM!"

The younger Winchester's eyes instantly snap open, and he finds himself jumping out of bed. He grabs his gun and sprints down the hallway in his socked feet, his rifle ready to blow if necessary. "SAMMY!" he hears, bellowing at the top of his brother's lungs. He swings the door open and finds his brother sitting straight up in bed, glancing around the room in some sort of nightmarish trance with feverish eyes. Sam turns on the lights and sets down the gun.

"Hey! Dean!" he says, roughly grabbing his trembling shoulders. "Snap out of it! It's just a dream!"

"Hot..." he mumbles, picking at his t-shirt, even with his bloody and broken fingers. "Too hot..."

Sam figures this is some sort of fever-induced panic attack, but he wants his brother to come back to him. His heart is thudding in his ears, and his pulse is pounding so heavily that it's throbbing throughout his body. His mind is skipping like a scratched record as he watches tears stream down his brother's flushed cheeks. Dean screams his name again and buries his head into a pillow, sobbing heavily and damn near hyperventilating.

Holy shit. Fuck. Okay. Think.

"Burnin'. Stop."

Sam does the first thing he can process and hoists his brother into a sitting position again. Dean's eyes are screwed shut tightly, as if he's trying to not see what's in front of him, like he's frightened by what it is. He presses a firm hand on his warm back, and Dean collapses into his chest, mumbling over and over about how hot it is. About how his flesh is being singed and burned. About how Alistair is poking at his brain with a sharp stick.

About how badly he misses his brother.

"SAMMY!"

His crying jag grows louder and more intense as he grips on to Sam's t-shirt for dear life. Tears soak through his clothes, and he holds Dean closely and tightly, making sure he knows that he's right here. Hell. It both describes where his brother's mind currently is and where Sam feels trapped at as well. It's been fucking years since this whole ordeal, and, even though Dean refused to talk about it, he didn't have nearly as many nightmares as before.

The Mark is boiling and a feisty shade of red against Sam's own arm. His veins are popping out around it, and Sam begins to wonder if this is why his brother refused to leave his room for so long .The Mark. Does it cause dreams or altered realities? He isn't sure, but all he knows is that he wants that fucking thing off of him so badly that he can taste its removal. No matter what, his ultimate goal is to get it off of him and return to their "normal" lives.

"Shh, buddy," he whispers, running his fingers up and down his spine.

"Alistair... Quit... Hot... Bloody... Make it stop! SAM!"

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says quietly. "I'm here, and I'm not gonna leave you."

They sit here for a while, Dean wrapped up in Sam's protective embrace. His fever is raging and bubbling over like a boiling pot of water, and he should be working on lowering it as soon as possible, but his brother's harsh screams are finally dying down; there's no way he's letting go. Soon, the shouting and yelling turns into tears and nearly silent sobs. Then, it slowly morphs into sniffling and a new, abrasive crackling of the lungs and a raspy cough.

"Sam?" he mutters.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"'s it r'lly you?"

Sam cards his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, it's me. I'm right here."

* * *

After Dean's nightmare and anxiety attack, Sam shuffles him into his room for the remainder of the night. He helps him shower since he entirely soaked through his clothes and helps him into boxers and one of his loose, old long sleeved shirts. He opts for one of Dad's that's tucked away deep in Dean's dresser drawers, figuring the fabric would be cool and comfortable and welcoming. It's been over eight years, but he knows now how much Dad meant to Dean.

Still, Dean's fever is still there and refusing to drop a degree even after his cold shower. He is curled up on Sam's chest and breathing heavily into the darkness as the younger Winchester continues to massage his back as best as he can. Despite the meds pumping through his system, it seems as though his previously exhausted brother is wide awake and refusing to go back to sleep. Hell, if it were Sam, he wouldn't want to, either.

"Dean," he says. "You should try to get some rest."

He shakes his head into his chest.

"I promise I'll be right here."

This time, he receives a shrug. Even though he's damn near trembling with fatigue, and it's nearly five in the morning, Sam turns on the TV in his bedroom. Dean shifts and seems to familiarly lose himself in the warm glow of Comedy Central, where old episodes of _South Park_ are already playing. He hears Dean chuckle a few times, and, soon, Sam finds himself drifting off peacefully. He tries to stay awake with his brother, but he just can't.

* * *

At some point, Sam wakes up. He isn't sure what time it is. Hell, he isn't even sure if it's still the same day. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and pops his jaw while he yawns. Jeez. He may have just regained consciousness, but he's still so fiercely exhausted that it takes every ounce of energy he has to click on the bedside lamp. He finds Dean sprawled out on his stomach, not an ounce of blanket covering his battered and bruised body.

Dean's shirt is hitched up in the back, and Sam can tell those angry marks are going to take time to heal. He reaches out to delicately graze the bruises, but, the second his hand makes contact with his hot skin, Dean flails and opens his eyes. They are bloodshot and unfocused, darting around the room in a dazed panic. He starts to pick at his skin with his left hand, as if he's trying to peel off the layers one at a time. Sam grimaces.

"Hey! Stop that!" he shouts, holding his hand tightly.

"Burning. Hot."

Sam nods. "I know, man. It's just from the fever. You'll feel better soon."

Dean slowly sinks back into bed, curling up in a ball on his side and staring straight at Sam. He's fidgeting and squirming, but at least he isn't freaking out as badly as before. He needs help. It's not that he can't take care of his brother by himself (because God knows he's done it under absolutely dire circumstances before); it's just that he needs to figure out why in the hell his behavior is so weird. And since when does Dean have nightmares about the pit anymore?

He hasn't heard his brother wake up from a nightmare in months.

"Cas?" he calls.

And, in that instant, their angel friend appears in Sam's bedroom. "Hello, Sam. What is wrong with your brother?"

"I was kinda hoping you could tell me."

Dean has calmed down a bit from the fit he was about to go into and is damn near asleep again when Cas puts two fingers on his forehead. The second he does, the Mark of Cain glows red and angry on his right arm, and Dean begins to try to shake the angel's touch off of him, a few stray tears sliding down his cheeks. "Stop!" he shouts. Sam has no idea what Cas is doing or what he's searching for, but seeing it cause his brother distress is enough to push him.

"It's the Mark."

"Okay," Sam says. "And?"

"It's causing delusions of your brother's time in Hell. I must say that they aren't very pleasant."

"When has Hell ever been pleasant?"

Cas doesn't have an answer for that, but, when he goes to head to the other side of the room, Dean grabs at him with his uninjured hand. "Don't leave me," he whispers, all too softly to be coming from Sam freaking Winchester's brother. Dean's voice is so full of raw and open emotion that it makes him sick to his stomach. Wordlessly, the angel gives Sam a sympathetic look before crawling into bed behind the blond, spooning him.

"Goodnight, Dean."

* * *

_October 22, 2014_

Sam has been alternating between rubbing his brother's back with muscle relaxant and switching ice packs around on his exhausted body. Dean barely says a word and seems to have swallowed back inside himself, only talking when spoken to. Cas left almost as soon as Dean woke up yesterday evening from his little catnap (which was really nearly ten hours). So far, there have been no further mentions of Hell; Sam figures it's because his fever is nearly nonexistent.

Dean is watching TV out of the corner of his eye in Sam's bed. The covers are pulled up to his shoulders, and he laughs quietly every now and then. Sam carefully sits down on the bed next to his brother, and he he smiles when Dean rolls to where his face is smushed on his knee, wrapping his left hand around it kindly. The Mark is no longer red; it's just a scar, much like their entire life on this planet. He tries not to be worried, but, honestly, nothing feels right anymore.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, DarknessofSupernatural86. Thanks for reading, requesting, and reviewing! =)


	84. TroyandAbed

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reviewing, requesting, reading, favoriting, and following! =)

TroyandAbed requested: "I wanted to ask you to write one story where Dean is badly injured during a hunt (stabbed or shot), and Sam and Bobby have to drug him because of the pain and have to make stitches and take care of him, and Dean is still with his "don't worry; I'm fine" stuff." Ouch. Poor Dean. Of course, he could be dying and be able to manage the words "I'm fine." It's such a massive defense mechanism, but at least Sam and Bobby are there to help.

I'm going to set this one in season six after Sam gets his soul back. His wall hasn't been broken.

* * *

TroyandAbed

* * *

_March 9, 2011_

There are less than two weeks until spring, but one sure as hell wouldn't be able to tell here in the outskirts of Illinois. Fluffy, white snowflakes pile around the Impala, covering the windows Dean is trying so desperately to thaw. They're trying to keep a lookout for Bobby, who is coming to assist them on a werewolf hunt just for poops and giggles, but it's becoming a giant pain in the ass because the windshield wipers don't stand a chance against the compactness of the snow.

Sam is bundled tightly from head to toe, resembling the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, only, instead of white, he's wearing nearly all black. His cheeks are bright pink, and he's breathing into his turtleneck sweater to warm up his chest area. It's well below zero outside, and, despite sitting in a warm car, he's trembling from both fatigue and cold. They have been running nonstop for the past few days, and he just got his freaking soul back about a month ago.

They're trying to make it work. Dean has gotten better about opening up and talking to him and is even drinking less than usual. He can only imagine how hard it must have been on him to walk around with a soulless version of his little brother, and Dean already has enough emotional issues as it is. Hell, between him practically being a robot and losing Lisa and Ben, it's a wonder his brother is standing on two feet and not crumbling away little by little.

Dean glances over at his younger brother and can't help but grin slightly. Sam is back. His Sam is back. He can't begin to tell anyone about how desperate he was to actually be able to hold a conversation with a human instead of the shell of his flesh and blood staring straight at him. It hasn't been easy, but, slowly, he's found himself being able to fall asleep more than every three days and eating as opposed to shoving aside basic needs for survival.

Thankfully, Bobby pulls up, and they can get this show on the road. Sam is dreading going outside in this blizzard, especially since these conditions will make the werewolf particularly hard to spot. But, this Goddamn thing has been literally ripping apart families and absolutely needs to be stopped soon. He pulls on a beanie and throws the hood of his coat over his head, shoving his gloved hands into his momentarily, fingering the gun filled with silver bullets.

"Here," Sam says, handing his brother a hat too. Snowflakes have already nestled in Dean's hair, and this will help keep him at least somewhat warm, especially since he doesn't have a hood to put over his head. Dean glares at him like he's lost his freaking mind. "Seriously, dude. Just wear it." His big brother drops the attitude and puts on the dark blue fabric over his ears, nodding in approval and appreciation as they stumble through the storm to Bobby's car.

The older man is dressed in his finest hunting apparel, his cheeks a pleasant shade of red. Sam and Dean have always enjoyed doing this with Bobby more than their Dad, specifically since he was nowhere near as harsh with them if they missed a shot or a stab or screwed up. Bobby has had a gentler approach since the beginning, despite being crotchety and a surly alcoholic. The Winchester brothers have never been more grateful than to have known Bobby.

"Hiya, Bobby," Dean greets, wrapping his arms around the hunter.

"Good to see you, boys," he says, going in to hug Sam next.

Sam nods. It's been a while since they last spoke, but they aren't exactly wanting to talk about what in the hell is going on with their angel friend Cas, the easily broken and damaged wall in Sam's mind, or the fact that Lisa and Ben no longer care about Dean. "Let's get this over with," the younger Winchester says, smiling at the two of them. He doesn't mean it in a rude or irritated way; he's just soaking wet and trembling with cold, and the inside sounds lovely right about now.

They stalk through the forest, and Dean is barely able to pick up his feet through the inches of shit on the ground. Shit. He really wishes this could have waited until it was done falling at the very least, but, sadly, werewolves don't rest no matter what the weather is like outside. He cocks his gun and heads toward where there have been reported sightings, separating out from Sam and Bobby and going his own direction, searching around silently.

Or... as silently as he can possibly be from slugging around in shin-height snow, which crunches with each step and movement. Dean groans in annoyance; it's hard to be stealthy when every twitch of his muscles sends of a flare gun pointed in his direction. He's checking around tree when he hears a sharp, deep growl in the distance. He immediately points his gun north and his left hand as leverage beneath his arm in case he has to take a lengthy shot.

Sam and Bobby are about five hundred feet or so behind Dean when they hear the howling too. Oh fuck. Sam's mind begins to whirl. The sound is clearly much closer to his brother than it is them, and he, cloning and mimicking Dean, gets his gun ready in the exact same stance. He and Bobby speed up in order to help be there as backup, but, in true Winchester fashion, nothing ever really goes right, and all Sam can make out is the ringing in his ears.

Crap. What the hell just happened? The shot was taken entirely too close to his ears, both of which are trapped in a never-ending hole resembling how it was when Castiel first tried to appear to them in angel form. And then he sees two patterns and trails of blood on the ground. Shit. Multiple shots? Did Bobby shoot the werewolf already? He runs forward toward them both once he discovers his surrogate father is no longer standing next to him.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean grips on to his right shoulder, blood flowing through his fingertips openly. The werewolf is beside him on the ground, teeth still showing and panting heavily for breath. Shit. Jesus Christ. How many times is he going to get shot in the damn shoulder in his lifetime? Fucking tree. He figures it must have blocked either Bobby or Sam's vision from him as they were shooting in that general direction. They took one of hell of a shot (one in a million, honestly), but they, unfortunately, received an unwelcomed two for one special.

White hot pain ripples through his upper body, and he's left in the type of shock where he's finding it hard to formulate thoughts. He focuses his energy on pulling himself into a sitting position, leaning against the oak tree behind him, holding on tightly to his shoulder. His mind is spinning, and he grits his teeth in agony as the area inflames and spews blood all over the place. Tears swell up in his eyes, but there's no way in hell he's letting them fall.

"Dean! Are ya alright, boy?" Bobby asks almost frantically, kneeling down in the snow.

Sam follows shortly behind him, gasping for air as if he's just ran a marathon. "What happened?"

"I'm a fuckin' idjit and just shot you brother," is all Bobby says.

The youngest member of the clan's mind is having a hard time wrapping itself around this situation. So Bobby shot Dean? But how is that plausible? He must have had one hell of a shot in order to do even remotely this kind of damage. But, here's the thing about him having his soul back: he panics. It's still controlled and very Winchester-like, but worry rises in his gut and feels as though it's going to expel itself all over the ground.

He rushes to his brother's hurt side and falls on to his knees too, carefully removing Dean's own hand and replacing it with his own once he removes his gloves. Shit. It's bleeding pretty badly, and there's a decent-sized hole from the bullet. He figures the thing is still in there, but he can never be completely sure until he checks. "Can you walk?" Sam asks quietly, and he nods instantly once he sees the anger flare up in Dean's eyes.

Dean doesn't need help up or need someone to walk beside him to make sure he's okay. He's not a four year old toddler anymore, and he damn sure doesn't appreciate being treated like one. Sure, he knows Sam and Bobby are just trying to help, but he's dealt with more injuries of this variety than both of them combined. He isn't mad at Bobby for doing his job. Hell, if it were necessary, he would have made the same call. Plus, who the hell could see anything out here anyway?

He gets it; accidents happen. Once, when Sam was about twelve, Dean accidentally pierced through his skin with an arrow that he shot from hundreds of yards away. That same day, Dad took him to Walmart for an eye exam after multiple headaches, vomiting episodes, and several upon several missed judgment calls with hunting and driving. Glasses. But Bobby's case is different in that Dean was just simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I'm sorry, boy," Bobby apologizes. He tries to pat Dean reassuringly on the back, but he flinches away.

Dean nods. "I'm good, Bobby. I promise."

Sam shakes his head, but doesn't bother justifying his brother's idiocy with actual words. Dean is stubborn as shit and won't admit defeat until he's got an infection or pneumonia or is damn near dying in a hole somewhere. If he wants to play pretend, it's fine for now. But, the second they get back to Bobby's house, this crap is stopping. He just hopes and prays that either car will be able to make it out of here before the snow piles up and gets much worse.

Blood is just gushing from Dean's shoulder, and each step hurts like a son of a bitch. It's already stinging and burning with an unbelievably intensity, and he has to bite his lip to keep from yelping like a baby in pain. He repeatedly tells himself to be a man; Dad would want and expect better than this. Sam is practically standing on top of him, and he wants nothing more than to push him out of the way, but he isn't quite sure that would work out in his favor.

When they make it back to both cars, it's becomes obvious that the Impala isn't going anywhere tonight. Bobby's truck as four-wheel drive, so there's a chance they can make it back to his place in one piece. He rolls his eyes when his brother climbs into the backseat with him, gently coaxing off his coat even though it's freezing dick in here. His body shrivels up at the temperature, but the bullet wound in his arm relishes the fact that there's air getting to it.

He feels hot and achy all over, but he knows there's absolutely no way that an infection has settled in in under fifteen minutes. His feet are soaked, his hair is matted to his forehead, and he becomes more tired when the heat in the truck starts to kick in. Sam applies pressure to the wound, and he's now positive that the bullet has to be in there. Gross. He knows from past experience that recovery time is extended by a week when someone has to dig around inside his shoulder. He huffs and leans his head back against the seat.

Somewhere along the line, Dean dozes off. Sam is gulping with anxiety, and he can't stop his heel from tapping nervously on the ground to an erratic, unstable tempo. There's no way he can be angry with Bobby for this due to their hazardous conditions, but that doesn't erase his panic. He knows that Bobby feels terrible for this, but he's thankful he's being rational about this where Sam can't. He hasn't really spoken, but he continuously feels like he's going to throw up.

By the time they arrive at Bobby's house in Sioux Falls, Sam has swallowed back his vomit three times. Having his soul has made him a bit more sensitive than usual since he has to readjust to being able to feel these kinds of emotions again. It's hard to be level-headed during situations like this, but he maintains his cool and calm collectiveness as best as he can. He shakes Dean's left shoulder and tries to help him inside the house, but he shakes him away.

"I got it," he mutters. If he were being for real though, he would say he definitely doesn't got it. His eyes are drooping closed, and the agony shredding through his shoulder is nearly intolerable. Henrikson and Sam have now shot him in the opposite side, and getting over that becomes more challenging each time. Fortunately for him, it's the right shoulder, and, overall, he believes there may be less scar tissue surrounding area. He just hopes it heals fast.

The inside of Bobby's house is warm and inviting, and Dean immediately sits down on the couch, holding his arm close to his chest.

"Shirt off," the older man says, a bit on the softer side than what he's expecting.

Dean shakes his head. "Be fine, Bobby. Just need some whiskey and sleep."

Sam plops down frustratingly next to him. "You need medical attention, Dean. Let Bobby fix you up."

"But I'll be fine! I've dealt with worse!"

This time, Bobby shakes his head. "I'm not lettin' you do that to yourself, son. Now, this was my mistake, and I'm gonna fix it."

Dean looks him straight in the eye. "I know you didn't mean to shoot me."

"You're still letting me get the bullet outta there."

The older Winchester exhales loudly and goes to stand up to get away from Bobby and Sam. Maybe if he just goes upstairs and lies down for a bit then they'll leave him alone and realize he's fine with taking care of himself. He gets that Sam's soul is back now, but he's still having an issue with getting over his brother saying he couldn't care less about him, letting him get turned into a vampire, and not being able to tell when he was truly hurt or sick.

"Dean!" Bobby and Sam both shout at the same time.

"Leave me alone! It's okay, guys!" he shouts, heading up the stairs.

But then there's this pointy thing being jabbed into his side, and his vision goes all blurry, and then he's submerged into darkness.

* * *

Dean is settled on the couch with his right arm propped up by a table as Bobby plucks out the bullet nestled in his shoulder. Thankfully, this goes over without a hitch as he stabbed him with a needle chalked full of sedatives about thirty minutes ago. Sam begins to individually stitch the wound shut; it doesn't require much, but it's more than they would have gotten with Dean awake. If his brother had it his way, he would be swinging for the fences right about now.

His older brother is so fucking stubborn. It used to be funny when he was about five, but it's been irritating ever since. He wants Dean to know that he has people that want to take care of him, but he's so used to shutting down and closing himself off that he barely accepts help, especially these days. Sam has every memory that soulless Sam had and can now acknowledge those emotions and feelings, but it's too little too late for Dean, who, despite acting normal and healthier, is having a hard time coming to grips with the real Sam Winchester being back.

"Think he'll be okay?" Sam asks, checking over his big brother. His mouth is wide open, and his head is hanging all the way to the left as he snores into the couch cushion. He isn't exactly sure what Bobby dosed him with because sedatives don't normally make people snore, but he'll take whatever he can get at this point. He tapes a bandage around the stitches and tugs the sleeve back down over his arm gently. There's no use in struggling with new clothes or forcing him to wear a sling until he's actually awake, which is when Sam intends on letting him know that he's here.

* * *

_March 10, 2011_

Dean has been lying around on the couch all afternoon. He woke up around ten this morning with a killer headache and with his shoulder throbbing greatly. Sam has been poking and prodding at him, but he's been so fucking tired from whatever drugs Bobby used that he has barely been able to put together a sentence. For a while, it was like his mind was able to think all these thoughts, but he just wasn't able to vocalize it with real words.

His arm is cradled closely to his chest, and the additional strain of forcing it to sit like that is exhausting him even more. So, when he sees Sam out of the corner of his blurry eyes carrying a sling in his hand, he wants to take him up on the offer. It would help the swelling go down by taking the pressure off the rest of his body and would immobilize it from jerking all over the place with each movement, but he intends on making a fuss anyway.

"N'thanks," he mumbles, returning his attention back to the TV.

Sam shakes his head. "No way, dude. You're so wearing this." He's sick and tired of his brother being in this permanent state of mind. He's worried that this injury is just going to cause him to retreat back further inside himself and lose all of the progress they've made in the last four weeks. "I'm right here for you, Dean. I always will be." He adds this in because he wants to let his brother know, but he's afraid Dean will just think it's a massive chick flick moment.

The older Winchester nods and stares up at Sam with glassy eyes. Dammit. He's not going to cry like a little bitch now, but he does allow his brother to help him into the snug sling without another word. It instantly helps and provides a release of tension and stress on his shoulder, and he gives Sam a watery smile. "Thanks," he mumbles, almost so softly that he can barely hear it himself. But he's so not making this a chick flick moment.

"Yeah," Sam says. "No problem."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, TroyandAbed. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	85. headinthecloudsgirl (II)

**Author's Note: **Sadly, I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all so very much for following, favoriting, requesting, reviewing, and reading! I truly do appreciate it! =)

headinthecloudsgirl requested: "So, Dean's wearing contacts right? I was thinking that he loses one on a hunt and, believe me, running around with only one contact is no fun. You see half blurry and it makes you dizzy, nauseous, and gives you a headache. But Dean is Dean, so both of his hands are screwed up – fingers all scraped or something? – and he can't take the second one out, so Sam has to do it. Your choice on what point of the prompt you focus on, as long as Dean has to sit through Sam trying to get his contact out – I would freak out if I were him."

I would so panic if I were Dean! I have been a contact wearer for years now, and the thought of someone else trying to remove one of mine is terrifying. Reading this prompt actually made me squirm a bit in my chair. But, I would feel a bit better if my brother were Sam because he's super trustworthy and isn't going to hurt or taunt his brother. My own brothers would probably jab me in the eye on purpose for all I know, especially my younger brother, haha.

This one is going to be set in season two. Completely AU.

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headinthecloudsgirl (II)

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_May 12, 2007_

"Sasquatch!" Dean shouts, chucking a stray, lumpy pillow at his brother's head. Sam snorts and mumbles incoherently in his sleep, but he doesn't flinch. It's past 2:00 PM on this muggy Saturday afternoon in Missouri, and the older Winchester is more than ready to get some grub. He's been munching around on a stale bag of chips he found in the trunk of his baby, but he didn't want to leave without his brother to go get lunch.

Usually, Sam doesn't sleep this long. Their adventure last night wasn't even a hunt; it was just trying to find a Goddamn motel in the middle of nowhere during a frickin' hurricane with no ocean, which took a huge amount of time. They arrived at their place to crash around three in the morning, they both fell straight to sleep, and Dean's now been up since a quarter after eleven. He vowed to let his little brother get some much needed beauty rest, but he's always been known to not sit still and have a hard time combating his stir craziness.

His stomach is wailing like a dying bird, and he's been awake for so long without food that he's sure he's lost about fifteen pounds. When Sam refuses to wake up, Dean hops into the bed with him, jumping up and down like a toddler who's had too much candy. "Sammy! Rise and shine!" he shouts, jolting his brunette brother awake instantly. Even though his eyes are open and he looks pissed, Dean doesn't stop bouncing until Sam wraps his hands around his ankles.

"Quit!" he barks, sitting straight up against the headboard to rub his eyes. Shit. Sure, he's woken Dean up in numerous ways before, but acting like a baby doesn't help either of them. But, he's sure he's testy from just being woken up, and he's cranky, so he has to bite his tongue. "What's so important?" he asks, yawning into his cupped hand. Dean settles down and plops next to him, tossing his legs over the edge of the bed and swinging them restlessly.

He shrugs almost nonchalantly. "I'm hungry, and I found us a hunt."

"You woke me up 'cause your stomach is growling?"

Dean nods. "It's like 2:30 or some shit. And I'm more than hungry; I'm freakin' starvin', Sam!"

Sam double-checks his wristwatch, and his eyes widen when he's informed that it's actually 2:42 in the afternoon. He hears his own stomach begin to rumble and gets out of bed with no further questions asked, clothes in hand. He doesn't bother showering because he took one last night, and, judging by how hard it rained, he will become slathered in mud in no time during their hunt. He quickly shaves, brushes his teeth, and is throwing on a pair of socks while sitting on the toilet when Dean enters, contacts lens case tucked protectively in his hand.

"It's this late, and you've been doing the whole Daredevil thing all day?" he questions. Dean's eyesight has only gotten slowly worse since he started wearing contact lenses and, occasionally, glasses, especially since he reads a shit ton more than a typical person and sometimes still wears his lens for two or three days at a time. If they get a late start, it's bound to mess up his schedule, and he'll watch TV and do whatever he wants while pulling a Matt Murdock.

Dean shrugs, carefully putting in the lenses and blinking a few times after. When Sam was twelve, he used to harp on his _big_ brother all the time for handling his contacts and glasses safely. Dad instantly spent the nearly seven hundred dollars he made hustling pool at the bar in South Carolina on the lens, claiming they would make hunting easier. Afterall, he didn't want to risk losing or breaking them. Dean was freaking twenty years old before he got himself the actual frames because his eyes were often times too swollen and inflamed for contacts.

But, the point is is that Sam is frigging annoying. He's four years older, which means he's four years smarter, and he hates that his brother doesn't trust him to remember such a simple, mundane task that he's pretty much mastered over the years. He sighs, but shakes it off, figuring it's just his viciously growling stomach that it's making him irritable and on edge. Sam comes out of the bathroom and is still smiling like a puppy, so he guesses they're okay.

"Ready for food?" Sam asks.

Dean nods. "You don't gotta ask me twice."

* * *

It's been nearly two hours since they ate dinner, and Dean is hungry again. He guesses the double steak burger with extra ketchup, an order of cheese fries, and the chocolate milkshake didn't cut it for him, and he's jonesing for a root beer and some orange chicken. He wishes he could convince Sam to go to a Chinese buffet after they wrap up these salt and burns, but he doubts his salad munching baby brother is going to feel the same way he does about that one.

Sweat is already dripping off of him and pooling around his dark grey t-shirt just from walking to the tombstones. He drops the two shovels, and Sam sets down their duffels into the still drying mud, panting heavily. Nights like these always make his asthma flare up, and he can already feel the tightness around his chest walls forming. Jesus. He wishes he had never open his trap about any form of hunting, but he's going to have to suck it up; summer's only going to be worse.

"Let's get this over with," Sam huffs, beginning to dig and pick at the grass. The recent rain both helps and hinders them in different ways. The wetness allows for the ground to be damp and easy to break through, but the moisture in the dirt also makes it about twice as heavy to lift up as before. Despite having gotten a lot of sleep, his bones are creaking and squeaking, and he's sweating up a storm of his own. He can imagine Dean is doing the same.

Dean is panting and trying to compose himself, kneading his aching chest with his fingertips rather harshly, hoping to massage the pain away. He coughs into the open air and notes the harsh wheezing that is accompanying his each and every breath. Great. He drops the shovel and pulls the inhaler out of his soggy jeans pocket, pressing the canister down in order to provide sweet relief. The moment he tastes the oxygen, he feels something funky in his eye.

Shit. What the hell was that? He discovers that he can't exactly see that well out of his left eye. Everything is blurry on that side, while everything is fine and the way it should be on his right. Motherfucker. His contact lens. This has happened once or twice before, which happened damn near the way it went down moments ago. Something flares up and bothers him, his eyes apparently tear up really fucking badly, and he loses one (or, in one case, both) lenses.

Holy crap. Those Goddamn things are super expensive. He tries to push past it in his normal style, but the ground below is unfocused and hazy in his left eye, completely throwing off his sense of balance. "You okay, dude?" he hears Sam ask from deep inside his hole, obviously concerned about how erratic and spacy his shoveling has became. He contemplates telling him the truth, but he doesn't want to worry or bother him right now.

"Yeah. Just got something in my eye." Well, more like he lost something that's supposed to be _in_ his eye. The answer must have satisfied Sam because he doesn't say anything else; he just goes back to digging. But there's this pulsing sensation forming behind his nearly blind eye, and an unfamiliarly hollow pit swelling in the pit of his stomach. Everything around him is spinning, and he wishes he could take the other lens out, but the case is in the Impala.

He has to close his left eye to get an accurate reading on how much further he has to go, and he's swaying on his feet. Jesus. He contemplates removing the right lens from his eye and just dropping it on the ground, but it's only half as expensive to replace one as it is two. Plus, Sam would be pissed at him for being so "reckless" with his belongings, especially when the product is so important for him to be able to function on a usual basis.

But his stomach is in knots, and he's about to puke all over himself when he finds a way to climb out of the grave. He's panting and sweating and having to swallow back his own throw up. Crap. He really shouldn't have continued to dig right after nearly having an asthma attack and losing a contact lens. Dean doesn't even bother to open up his other eye because it just causes more and more pain and issues along with it. But, the moment he tries to head back to the car, the air grows thin and cold around him, leaving him shivering in his long sleeved shirt.

"Dean!" he hears his brother scream. "Watch out!"

The older Winchester immediately darts out of the way and starts to sprint with both eyes open. Each time he tries to turn around and look to see what's trailing him, he can't fucking see it because one eye is way dumber than the other. His vision is entirely blurry, and he has to fight to keep himself standing on his own two feet without puking and/or collapsing. He grips at his stomach as he runs for his life, not knowing what's chasing him.

And then, without any warning, there's this whole "shit, my inhaler's on the ground, and I can't breathe, and what the fuck was that? A tree? Is this bark?" moment. And there's this "I can hear Sammy but Sammy's no there" thing. And, well, their lives would be incomplete without the "spirit torched into flames like a freaking Christmas ham" mantra they seem to live and die by. And then there are big comforting hands on his shoulders.

And then, of course, he throws up everywhere. He doesn't open his eyes or try to figure out how exactly his head could pound this harshly into his skull. Rancid throw up stains the back of his throat, and he spits continuously to try to get the taste out of his mouth. His stomach is still in knots, and his fingers... He can't exactly tell what's wrong with them, and he isn't about to voluntarily open his freaking eyes to figure it out.

"Dean," Sam coaxes. "Open your eyes, dude." He's pleading because it looks really weird to see his brother half-collapsed against the tree he was just thrown into with his fingers bleeding all over the place, which is what he is guessing stopped his head from making a collision with the bark. He can't put his finger on why exactly he's puking, but that doesn't stop the worry from shooting up and around his body, his pulse racing inside his chest.

The older Winchester shakes his head defiantly. "No."

"Okay, well, then will you tell me what's wrong?"

Dean shrugs. "Lost a contact. Can't see."

Shit. Holy shit. He knows from previous experiences with his brother how painful and exhausting this situation can be. He carefully wipes the sickness off of Dean's shirt as best as he can with his hands to try to alleviate the smell, but he decides that getting him to the car is far more important at the moment. He doesn't ask Dean if he can walk because there's no way in hell he is, so he picks him up bridal style and hums to comfort him on the way there.

Dean has his eyes screwed tightly shut when Sam lays him down in the backseat, but not before removing his t-shirt and replacing it with an oversized one of his own to allow for the mugginess of night to dissipate from his slightly heated skin. After he wipes his face with a washcloth, he takes another shirt, drenches it with a bottle of water, and places it over his brother's face. Undoubtedly, he'll have to bandage his hands at the motel room. But, he's a bit more intimidated by the fact that one contact is still in his eye; at least Dean was able to remove it himself the other times.

This should be interesting.

* * *

It's about an hour drive back to the motel room, and Dean falls fast asleep. Sam hates having to wake him up, but, unluckily overall and luckily in this situation, Dean is still trying to put back on the fifteen pounds he lost after Dad's death, which makes him easier to maneuver. He doesn't stir when he places him on the bed. Sam's first order of business is definitely to take care of the swollen, gruesome looking fingers that are damn near the size of watermelons.

Dean's easily the receiver of two broken fingers on his left hand. There's nothing fractured on his right, but the tips are scraped and scarred to hell. Shit. No way he'll be driving, writing, or doing just about anything until everything heals. Fortunately, his right hand will recover faster; he should be back to resuming his daily activities in possibly less than a week. But, this just means Sam's fears are coming true: he's going to have to remove Dean's remaining lens himself.

His older brother is incoherent when he sits down the edge of the bed and props him into a sitting position. Sam's heart is damn near thumping out of his chest, and sweat is dripping down his hairline and side of his face. Okay. He can do this. It shouldn't be that hard. Afterall, he's seen Dean does this at least a thousand times since he was a chubby twelve year old who still went by Sammy instead of Sam. He can definitely do this.

But then Dean's bloodshot eyes pop open the second his own fingers draw close. "What're you doing?!" he shouts, immediately flinching away from him. This time, it's Dean panic and anxiety that riddles his every thought and breath, and he wants this fucking contact out of his eye so badly that he can taste it. But, when he glances down at his splinted fingers on his left hand and the individual bandages covering each digit on his right hand, he knows he can't do this alone.

"You're going to have to let me," Sam informs him. "You could get a serious infection from not removing it."

Dean scoffs. "Yeah. That and puke my brains out every hour."

"Ready?" his younger brother asks softly.

And, even though he could never possibly be ready for this, he nods. Unfortunately, he doesn't make it past Sam's index finger being in his shitty line of vision out of his good eye. His brain won't let another pair of hands get that close, and he can't stop his heart from beating so rapidly and unpredictably. He needs to calm down, but he's drenched in sweat and exhausted, and his fingers, eye, head, and chest are freaking killing him. "Nope."

Sam sighs and puts his hands in his lap, making sure to make the gesture big and grand so Dean can tell he's not close to his face anymore. Shit. They're both shaken and trying to make this work as best as they can, but it's obvious Dean is massively uncomfortable with this. His older brother used to change his diapers and give him baths, but those concepts have nothing over this one. It's hard for his mind to pace itself and realize that it's necessary.

"We have to do this," he says.

Dean nods. "I know."

So, he tries again. His breath hitches in his throat once Dean visibly stops breathing and purses his lips tightly. Oh shit. His finger shakes, but it finally makes contact with Dean's eye. His brother is trying not to squirm, but Sam can feel the tiny tremors wracking his upper body's core when his arm brushes against his skin. But, before he even knows it, the tiny, clear lens is on the tip of his index finger and being put delicately back into its case.

His big brother is still shaking, and his breathing is still a little erratic, but a shit ton of color returns to his cheeks once the contact has been removed. Sam places his glasses on and pushes them up to his nose. He isn't sure if Dean should just go without any form of visionary help for the remainder of the night or if he should readjust his eyes to having said help. Sam decides to let him actually be able to see and watch the TV for a few hours.

The youngest Winchester changes Dean out of his jeans and socks, leaving him clad in one of his t-shirts and plaid boxers. Dean doesn't offer any help and doesn't say another word, clearly still a bit nervous from the whole ordeal. He's calming down and relaxing while Sam showers and comes back out in only light pajama pants, his hair shaggy, wet, and clinging to his forehead. His brother is almost asleep by the time he turns off the brightness in the motel room.

"Sammy?" he hears Dean mumble.

"Yeah?"

"Will you... um... Will you sleep here tonight with, uh, me?"

Sam nods and doesn't hesitate before climbing into the cool sheets next to his brother. He pulls the comforter over both of them, but not before removing Dean's glasses. His big brother is going to be rather useless for the next few days due to the issues with his hands and all, but there's no way Sam is going to let him fall because of that. Dean has always done anything and everything for him, and he can't picture his life without him.

"Th'nks, S'mmy," he mutters, drifting off to sleep against Sam's bare chest.

Sam plants a quick kiss on top of his hair. "No problem, buddy."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, headinthecloudsgirl. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	86. Lilith626 (III)

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you guys for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

I am really sorry if my formatting is off in any of these chapters. Doing this from my iPhone is a pain in the ass.

Lilith626 requested: "Okay, season 7 after Slash Fiction when Dean and Sam split up (due to Sam's hissy fit about Amy). Dean is driving back, about 15 miles out from meeting back up with Bobby. Dean starts to call when a Leviathan smashes into the stolen/rented/borrowed car he's driving, flipping it over, and leaving him for dead. Bobby hears the crash over the receiver and shouts for the boys to answer him (assuming Sam is there with him).

He realizes that he should probably hang up and call for an ambulance, but can't seem to until a nearby passenger notices the wreckage and stops to investigate. He/she hears Bobby screaming on the phone and talks to him, eventually getting an ambulance out on the scene and Dean to a hospital in critical condition (luckily, or unluckily, enough for him his face is busted and bruised enough that he isn't immediately identified as the robber/killer that's been on the news). Bobby leaves a message for Sam trying to figure out where the hell he is. Will leave Sam's response up to you."

Wow, this is definitely my most specific prompt! You basically wrote it for me, haha! =)

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Lilith626 (III)

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_October 29, 2011_

Sam. He wonders what Sam is doing. Is he having a hard time with his decision to leave? Does he miss him at all? Dean was raised on the mantra "watch out for Sammy;" hell, he used to think Dad loved his drooling baby brother more than him because that's all the man talked about. As he grew older, Sam became the single most important person in his life, and he guesses he can partially blame that on his father for making him fret so much as a child.

He murdered Amy. Yes, he will fully admit to that and probably end up burning down in the pit once again for it. Sam was... well, he was pretty pissed off about it and made it clear that he did not want to be anywhere around Dean for the time being. He hasn't slept in days since their massive blowout in some dingy motel room in Nebraska, and he's been staying at Bobby's place ever since. He misses his little brother, but Sam is too upset to deal with him.

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair, keeping the other steady on the wheel. Of course, this situation had to occur just a few days before the twenty-eighth anniversary of their mother's death. He hasn't exactly been handling the past few months well, especially with Sam getting his soul back and Cas exploding and dying. First, he lost Sam, then he lost Lisa and Ben, next he lost Cas, and, finally, to round it all out, he lost his brother again.

Now, he's left with a Sasquatch-sized hole in his heart. Tears swell up in the corners of his eyes and threaten to fall down his cheeks. The stress of this is getting to him, and he can literally feel himself deteriorating with each passing day. Bobby is even threatening to take him to the doctor to get him some help with how down in the dumps he's been lately; he knows it's at least slightly bad when Bobby is making future arrangements for this kind of health issue.

He's sorry for what he did to his brother, and, while he wishes he could take it back, he does wish Sam would understand. His younger brother has always sort of had his blinders on when it comes to Dean's funny way of protecting him. In a lot of instances, being the baby of the family will never leave him, and Dean tries his best to acknowledge why Sam is how he is. But, personally, he finds ditching and deserting him once more a tad bit old.

Dean's just tired of this life. If he could go back in time and somehow switch places with his mom or go to 1978 before he was born and convince Mom not to have him, he would do it in a heartbeat. What use is his life anyway? Sam is a grown ass man; he doesn't need him anymore period. The one person who has ever found him important won't even look him in the eye or stay in motel rooms they've shared together since they were four and six months old.

His cell phone buzzing in his pocket pulls him out of his trance, and he fiddles with answering it. The caller ID reads Bobby's name, but Dean was hoping and actually praying it was Sam. "Hello?" He hasn't been talking much lately, so his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. His grip on the stolen, shitty Mustang's wheel tenses up once he barrels down the road at a high speed. He got used to driving with Sam in the Impala, who would just take the wheel at times.

"Where are ya, boy?" Bobby asks over the other line.

Dean's face is still emotionless. "About fifteen miles away from your place."

"Well hurry up. I need ta pick your brain for somethin'."

Right as Dean is nodding to an invisible person, he sees headlights approaching quickly in the horizon. Jesus. This guy's a freaking nut job. He's hurdling down the opposite lane at an intensely fast speed, and there's no way he has good control over the wheel at the moment. Dean tightens his grip once again on the Mustang's steering wheel, his breath hitching in his throat when he sees that the truck swerving into his lane.

"Son?" he hears Bobby say.

But he can't respond. He's about to jerk the wheel harshly to the left to hopefully miss the truck, but it's too late. The impact of the two vehicles smashing together hurts Dean's ears. He hears the twisting of metal, and the smell of smoke and blood fills his nostrils. Shit. He can feel the car flipping over and over again until he feels nothing at all. The cell phone is still in his grips, but he can no longer hear the voice on the other end of the line.

"Dean!"

* * *

"Well hurry up. I need ta pick your brain for somethin'."

He is just about ready to ask where Sam is, but he doesn't want to pry too hard, specifically since he should see his other pseudo son soon enough. Dean was supposed to be going to meet up with him and hopefully try to convince him to come back, but he's a little reserved about the idea. The older Winchester hasn't been cooperating with discussions about his brother, so, to be honest, he's not sure Dean is even thinking about possibly meeting up with him anymore.

But, Dean doesn't typically lie to him, and, like he said, he doesn't want to kick him when he's already down. He figures Sam will be there voluntarily to at least talk about why he doesn't want to be around his big brother any longer. He's known both boys practically their whole lives and understands all of the trials and tribulations they've gone through as a team, so he is praying that maybe Sam will see the light and come on back with him.

The normal Dean would cop an attitude of some sorts or have a snarky comeback, but this Dean doesn't even respond to him saying that. He's trying to set up a doctor's appointment for the kid, even though he's positive he won't go (or, if he does go, he won't fill his prescriptions). The dark blond is in need of psychiatric help; no, he isn't crazy (which is the first thing Dean implied about himself), but he needs to open up to someone about these feelings... or lack thereof.

"Son?" he questions into the receiver.

And that's when he hears it. Scraping. Squealing of tires. The sickening thud of metal on metal. The tinkling of broken shards of glass. He damn near drops the phone, and, almost instinctively and instantly, tears drip down his cheeks. Holy shit. Jesus Christ. He immediately knows the sounds because he's been in a shit ton of accidents just like this one. But Sam and Dean... They're in the car. Panic settles in and rises up and out his throat.

"Dean!" he shouts, but he doesn't get an answer.

He should call an ambulance, but he can't stop anticipating an answer from one of his sons.

* * *

Melissa Shafer is on her way home from work when she sees the flames in the distance. Route 47 is a long stretch of concrete and, sometimes, gravel that cuts nearly straight through the middle of this old town. She hears her husband on the other end of their phone call, inquiringly worried about why she's suddenly stopped talking, but she can't stop driving. Her heart sinks to the pit of her stomach once she gets close enough to actually see what happened.

There's a truck over in a ditch, two tires blown out and gas soaking the streets. The growing fire has broken the windows, and it's erupting into a ball of flames. There's a car on the opposite side of the road, flipped completely over with glass littering and covering the grass; she can see it from here. A lump grows in her throat, and she begins to panic, her insides shaking as she fumbles for her cell phone, getting out of her SUV to check the scene.

She should be calling 911, but she can't. This route is pretty desolate, especially since it's nearly midnight, and nearly everyone in the town turns in early around nine. Once she gets a closer look at the truck, she realizes that there's no way anyone survived this accident, and that's when a few tears slide down her cheek. Melissa is a neonatal nurse, and she has the unfortunate pleasure of sometimes losing her infant patients, so she knows all about loss.

But there's something strange about the truck's wreckage. There's this black goo seeping out of the driver side window, and there's no driver to be found. Maybe he or she was ejected from the vehicle? But she sees no signs of that either. Or maybe he or she somehow escaped and ran to get help before she got here. She has no idea, but none of this feels right to her. And it's even worse once she goes over to the car; she identifies it as a Mustang.

There's someone in here. She wants nothing more than to pull him (or at least it looks like a 'him') out of here before his car catches on fire too, but she knows that will most likely cause more damage than he already has sustained. It's best to leave him there. "Hello?" she calls out to him, kneeling in front of the busted driver's seat window in order to get a better look. The man's face is caked and coated in blood, and the crimson is still leaking out of multiple gashes on his face; one thick cut stretches from his lower ear to almost touching his nose.

She may be a nurse, but she by no means works in the ER. Melissa did a rotation there when she was at her university, but there was no way she could handle it. She is better equipped for helping premature babies and infants with congenital defects than fixing people who are this banged up. She calls out to the man once again, but he doesn't even begin to stir. And that's when she hears it. Screaming? But it's tiny and muted, and it doesn't take long for her to realize what it is.

A phone. And then she looks down at the man's bruised and scraped hands to find a cell phone clutched in his right. She grabs the device out of the loosened grip. _What the hell am I doing?_ She's wondering what is motivating her to answer to a random stranger on the other end of the phone, but, in some strange sense, she would want someone to do this for her, too. "H-Hello?" she questions, beckoning for the shouting to stop.

"Who the hell is this?"

"My name's Melissa. I-I was driving home from work, I saw an accident – this accident, - and pulled over."

"Are my boys okay?" the man asks.

"Um," I say, lying down flat on to my belly to get a better look. "There's only one person in here. Have you already called 911?"

"No. Been screamin' my head off tryin' to get some answer."

"Okay," Melissa says. "I'll do that then."

"I'll be there soon."

"Mile marker 98 on 47," she informs him.

And she hears no more from the stranger.

* * *

Bobby makes it to the site just in time to see them putting Dean on a stretcher and to see the black shit seeping from beneath the torn up truck on the other side of the road. Great. Leviathan. But he'll worry about that part of the situation later. His heart is thumping wildly into his chest as he sprints over to the ambulance, where they're getting ready to place him. His face is unrecognizable, and Bobby has never once seen so much blood from one person.

He has to be careful, though, is what he decides on the way over here. And, is panicked and anxiety-riddled as he is right now, he has to keep level headed. Sam and Dean's Goddamn clones have been all over TV lately committing mass murders, but, luckily or unluckily (depending on how he thinks about it), his face is too smashed and bruised to be identified as the killer. He's going to have to pull the father-son card once again.

"Let me see him!" he says out of nowhere, commanding the paramedic's attention.

"Who are you, sir?"

"That's my boy!" Bobby shouts.

The brunette paramedic puts careful hands on his shoulders. "Sir, I'm going to need you to follow me to the hospital."

"Why can't I ride with him?"

He must be testing his patience. Either that, or something is really wrong with Dean. Better cooperate.

Bobby nods and doesn't let the other man answer. "Okay. I'll be right behind you."

* * *

_October 30, 2011_

Sam is half-asleep on some gross motel bed just outside of North Dakota. Truth be told, he hasn't been out of his sweatpants and t-shirt in almost two days. Hell, he hasn't even been outside. His whole body is still tense, achy, and feverish, and he can't do this anymore. He's already decided that he's going to go to Bobby's house first thing in the morning to duke the rest of this thing out with his brother. He is pissed at Dean for killing Amy, but...

Dean is his brother. There's nothing he can do or say that will ever make that go away. And, while he has an angry pit in his stomach that wants to tell him to "fuck off" for eternity, he's going to be the bigger man here. He isn't going to apologize or anything, but he does want his brother to know that he'll always at least be there to back him up. This is one of the many times he's left Dean in the dust, and, each time, he knows he's in for trouble.

The younger Winchester has walked out and abandoned his brother more times than anyone besides Dad ever has. Typically, this causes Dean to stop eating, sleeping, and talking, sending him back into that forever fragile state of mind where he means nothing to no one. And that's just not true, but Sam can't help but realize he's the one causing these issues. So Dean killed Amy... He's come to terms with that. He doesn't think it was right.

But Dean has always had the motto of "Shoot first; ask questions later." He used to hear Dad make his older brother repeat that each time before he went on a hunt that would last for sometimes three months. Sam is trying; don't get him wrong. He gets that sometimes he's selfish and doesn't have his brother's best interest in mind, which is a complete contrast of Dean's point of view. This is why he's deciding to give it another shot.

His phone rings on the nightstand, and Sam groggily rolls over to answer it. "Hello?"

"Sam?"

"Bobby. Hi," he says sleepily.

"Your brother's been in a car accident. Bad one too."

And, right then, Sam Winchester's entire world comes crashing down around him. It's one thing for him to get hurt while in the line of duty and with Sam right by his side to help him through it, but it's an entirely different thing to be injured in a non-hunter way without his brother. Vomit immediately rises up the back of his throat, and he coughs to make it go away. His fingers are trembling as he holds the phone, and he sits up in bed. "What happened?"

"Leviathan smashed into him, apparently. He's at Mercy Hospital near my place."

Sam nods. "Is he okay?"

"Not sure yet. But, Sam, you need to get here soon."

And then he drops the phone right where he's sitting, throwing on shoes and a jacket before leaving this joint in the dust.

* * *

By the time Sam arrives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, he's shivering with exhaustion, fear, and anticipation. It took over six hours to get here. It was six hours of intense worrying and him having to single handedly drive, pay attention to the road, and puke into a brown paper bag when his nerves became too much for him to stomach. He races inside the ER doors and spots Bobby. Okay. He's okay. Dean's going to be fine like he always is.

"Bobby!"

The older man stands up and instantly wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace, one like Dean would normally pull him into. "Glad you're here, Sam." The younger Winchester nods and tries not to break down right then and there. His mind is nothing but a source of destruction and panic, and he is in desperate need of just knowing his brother is okay. Tears begin to stream down his flushed cheeks, and he doesn't even bother to wipe them away.

"Any word on him?"

Bobby nods. "Just got out of surgery. Ruptured spleen that they had to remove. He's got a couple'a broken ribs, punctured lung, broken leg, bad concussion; the usual."

"Family of Dean Rivers?"

Sam's heart is pumping quickly as he turns around to face the doctor.

"He's awake," she says, smiling brightly.

"Thank God," both Sam and Bobby mumble at the same time.

"Would you like to see him?"

They nod and follow her back to one of the ICU's private rooms. There they find Dean, hooked up to every wire, machine, IV, and monitor known to man. His face... It makes Sam's stomach drop toward his feet, and he has to keep himself from gagging by covering his mouth with his hand. Jesus. Oh God. His face is battered, bruised, bloody, and so swollen that he's unrecognizable. But his eyes are open... He'll never know how.

Sam instantly walks over to his side and tries to fight the urge to hug him.

Dean looks up at him with happy eyes, and, even with a tube down his throat, he somehow manages to smile.

"Hey, Dean," Sam whispers.

Maybe they'll be okay.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Lilith626. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	87. haimavati

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the wonderfully brilliant television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

Oh my God! Did you guys see last night's episode?! It was crazily intense!

SPOILER ALERT (I warned you)!

When Dean almost stabbed Cas, and it looked as though he did (minus all the angel-y death scenes we've seen before), I nearly peed! And Crowley's eyes! My sister said he smoked a bit too much weed, but I was seriously freaking out and panicking the entire episode. And I cried a lot. When Dean told Sam that he should be the one burning and dead rather than Charlie, I seriously lost it. I flashed back to "The Purge," and, at that moment, I lost hope for the season.

Misha said that he season finale would have a breath of fresh air near the end and then basically kill us all in the end. Dean is SO FAR gone; he's barely Dean anymore, if at all. He's cold, calculated, and has no emotion or regard to his brother or Cas, And when Cas told Dean that he would be the one to watch Dean murder the world, I couldn't help but think forward to a massive showdown adorned in "The End" setting between a demon and an angel.

Overall, I just can't handle this show anymore... Too many feels.

And we have to wait an entire WEEK for the finale! I might die...

Honestly, I wrote this right after the episode aired. I've been falling behind on prompts since I've been home because I've been interviewing for jobs, taking drug tests, figuring out schedules, and visiting family and friends. So, due to my busy schedule and the fact that my heart feels crushed by yesterday's episode, this one may be discombobulated. I just feel so many emotions about the episode, and, while I do look forward to Death's re-appearance, I know it will be hard to watch.

So, yeah, it was really hard for me to focus on this one...

haimavati requested: "I was wondering if you could do a hurt Dean based on the episode from season three 'Malleus Maleficarum' when Dean had the stomach pain. The story can be after the episode. The pain returns just as a temporary aftereffect, and Sam takes care of him." I honestly had to go back a re-watch this episode because the small details have escaped me. But, I do like this prompt, and, as always, I love Sam taking care of his brother!

* * *

haimavati

* * *

_February 1, 2008_

By the time Dean returns to the motel room with an armful of sodas and junk food from the vending machine, he's damn near tears. He actually has to let a few fall and hastily wipe his face before re-entering the area with his brother. Thankfully, Sam is in the shower, so it gives him a couple of minutes to sort out a few things in private. His little chat with Ruby was more than enlightening, but he has this pit in his stomach that's killing him.

There is no saving him from Hell; Ruby just said that to get Sam to acknowledge her. She fixed the Colt, saved his hide earlier from hacking up his lungs all over the floor, and tried to sacrifice herself to get them both away from a shitty situation. But he knows there's no escaping what he's bound to become. He'll be dragged downstairs in three months, and he'll never be Dean Winchester again. Sam's going to be alone up here. Without him.

Sam wants to be his clone and is already beginning to have the makeups of his character. He used to be eaten alive by murdering innocent victims, but now he doesn't flinch. He used to eat salads and veggie shit, but now he's trying to eat burgers and steaks like it doesn't bother him. He used to care and show emotion and not be some damn would up about their job, but now he pushing each and every feeling aside and shoving it deep down inside of him.

No matter what, though, this wasn't a mistake. Dean sold his soul to save his brother, and not even an ounce of his body and mind wants to trade places with him or reverse back on the deal. His brother is every-fucking-thing to him. His one job in life has been to watch over him and make sure he's safe, so he did what any other rational big brother would do and fixed the problem. Sam will survive, but at a whole new magnitude of a cost.

When Sam went to Stanford a few years ago, at least Dean was still out there floating from job to job and acting like he didn't keep tabs on him. While Sam never really called him much (maybe three times a year if he was lucky), the older Winchester attended some debates he participated in, and he stopped by the hospital when Sam had broken his arm badly in two places and needed surgery; his brother never noticed anything out of place, which was what he wanted.

But this isn't what he desires. His last year on Earth is a damn crappy one, and he is going to be leaving the one person who ever truly cared about him. Dean will do anything to protect Sam, even if it means taking distract measures like the one he took nine months ago, but he wasn't thinking clearly about these level of ramifications. He wasn't thinking long term and leaving his younger brother here with no one. Dad's dead, and, soon enough, Dean will be dead too.

Dean scrubs a hand down his pale face and then immediately clenches on to his stomach. It's been achy and crampy since Ruby made him eat that asshole tasting dog shit. The demon's spell was a powerful one, but he figured he would have been over it by now. He massages his belly with his fingertips, kneading out the growing knots with his fingertips. Dean quickly opens up the laptop and acts like he's searching the Internet once Sam pops out of the bathroom.

"Hey," Sam says quietly, glancing toward his brother. Dean is ridiculously pale, and his cheeks are a bit on the flushed side beneath the lamp on their makeshift kitchen table. He notes that there's this certain stench of vulnerability in the air as he pulls on a clean long sleeved shirt and sweatpants before sitting down across from Dean. The dark blond won't make eye contact and is sniffling every few seconds for no apparent reason. "You okay?"

This apparently snaps Dean out of some sort of trance. He glances up from the blank computer screen and nods. "Never better." Sam could roll his eyes and huff, but he won't. After his talk with Dean earlier about becoming more like him, he isn't sure what is going to be said to him next, but his brother is so obviously not in the mood to have that discussion right now. Sam has learned over the twenty-four years he's been alive when to back off.

"You ready for bed?"

Dean doesn't bother shaking or nodding his head. He is beyond exhausted, but his "sleep" the last few weeks has consisted of a fifth of whiskey that he has to sip before lying down and never managing to actually slip into unconsciousness. At around four in the morning _every _morning, he gives up and decides it's not worth the fight. Now that he knows there's no stopping him from going to Hell, there literally is no use for sleep. He'll miss Sam if he does.

So, even though he knows he'll never pass out, he gets up from the table and collapses face first on the bed. It takes all of three seconds for him to realize that his contacts are still in, his boots are still on, and his dark blue jacket is still clinging to his body. Shit. He groans into the pillow and rolls over to find Sam starting to untie his shoelaces. "I got it," he mumbles, sitting up to do the rest of the job. His brother shrugs and then returns with his contact lens case. "Thanks..."

"No problem," Sam replies quietly, fidgeting when he crawls underneath the stiff motel comforter. It's a cold night outside, brisk and windy, and the weather perfectly matches the mood: somber. Dean's going to go to Hell, and Sam's going to be by himself. The younger Winchester feels tears swelling up in his eyes, but he has to be like Dean now if he wants to survive this battle alone. He curls into a ball on his side and watches his brother instead of crying.

Dean toes off his boots, removes his contacts, and shrugs off his jacket without moving much at all. Sam's eyes drooped closed a little more each time he hears a familiar grumble of annoyance or clearing of the throat. There's soft padding around the room as Dean brushes his teeth and rummages around in his duffel bag for a clean t-shirt. And, while he's still sleeping in jeans, Sam at least didn't see a bottle of Jack anywhere in his hands.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean whispers.

His brother's voice is all it takes for the tears he was trying so desperately to avoid to stream down his cheeks.

* * *

Dean's stomach is shredding into itself by the time he regains some form of consciousness. He isn't sure if he actually fell asleep or not because he opens his eyes to find that he's hanging halfway off his bed. He hoists himself back on to the mattress, and that single movement is enough to spike a sudden intensity in his belly. The afflicted area is swollen to the touch and is extremely sensitive; he can no longer try to rub the cramps away.

He coughs and tries not to wake Sam, who is sprawled out diagonally on his bed due to his freakishly long legs. The kid needs to sleep, and he's certainly not going to get any with him being so loud. He wants to try to make it to the bathroom, but, until this latest bout of pain finishes its ride in his intestines, he's left laying here. He moans and doesn't even try to wipe away the few stray tears dripping from the corners of his eyes.

And that's when he tastes the mixture of vomit and blood bubbling up the back of his throat. Shit. He tries to roll over and let strings of crimson dangle from his mouth to the floor, but he's in a body that refuses to budge. "S-S-Sam?" he tries to squeak out, but it sounds like nothing more than a cat was mangled in his esophagus and died in there. All of a sudden, he feels like his airway is closing, and he coughs viciously to alleviate the less than pleasant sensation.

Dean grips at the bed sheets with his hands and glances up at the ceiling. Mom. He sees her burning alive, and his stomach is bleeding, and hellhounds are ripping him apart while his baby brother is forced to watch. And Dad is standing over his torn and battered body, shaking his head with his arms across the chest, telling him that he was the one who was supposed to watch over Sammy. And he looks up at that fucking ceiling and sees what could have been.

Sam was supposed to get out. He was supposed to be happy. And Dad went missing, and Jess died, and Dad died, and Dean's going to die. Jake stabbed him in the fucking back, and Dean watched his fucking _brother _in his arms. And he grips on to his stomach so tightly because there's nothing left to grab. Sam will have no one to comfort him when he's upset. He should have left his brother alone. Dean never should have dragged Sam along with him.

He was supposed to be back by Monday, Goddammit.

Tears are streaming down his cheeks, and blood is pooling around the collar of his shirt. Jesus Christ. "SAM!" he manages to strangle out. His body tenses, and he vomits up more than just blood without being able to sit up. And that's when he feels Sam's strong, comforting hands frantically trying to figure out what the fuck to do with their tragic situation. And Dean wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around him and hug him and tell him he's sorry.

He's going to die. He's going to die. Please. Not right now. He still has three months... He has three months to make it up to Sam and try to find a way to reverse this thing. He can't go. He can't go. More blood and puke rises up his throat, and no amount of holding on to his torso helps. His face smears into his mess, and he needs Sam to know how terrible he feels. He wants to grow old together with his baby brother, and he can't leave him alone.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, cupping his hands around his brother's chin, who is clearly disoriented. He won't stop staring at the ceiling above, and he can't seem to do anything to bring him back to reality. There's chunky yellow-ish crimson everywhere; his own hands, face, and shirt are caked in the stuff. This looks like a repeat of the witch episode from earlier, but it can't be. He has no one to call, otherwise he would. But Dean might be dying.

And so Sam does the only logical thing he can think of and forces his big brother into an upright position. He holds his bloody face to his shoulder and rocks him back and forth, soothing over his aching stomach muscles with his fingers, trying to take away some of the pain. "Shh... Shh..." he whispers over and over again, noting that, the more he talks to him in his ear, he's relaxing into his touch. It gets to the point where Dean's not hyperventilating as much anymore.

He feels Dean's heart race against his own, the relentless pounding even syncing for a moment before thumping to a completely different beat. He continues to sooth him until he feels his body grow heavier and more taught in his arms. Dean is filthy and probably exhausted, but the stomach pain seems to have died down a bit. He is in absolute need of a shower, and he's going to have to wash his brother's bed later on. But getting Dean to the bathroom is his concern.

The instant he begins to pull away from him, his big brother latches on to him like a koala. Sam has to pry his fingers from around his hand and lift him bridal style. Dean's tears increase once again, but he doesn't flail in his arms. "I've got you," he coaxes. "It will be okay." Dean might not be dying now, but he will be in three months; Sam has to try to focus on something else other than that, though, otherwise he'll never make it through another day.

Getting the older Winchester into the shower isn't all that hard, and he cringes as his brother wraps into a ball in the corner of the tub. He shakes and shivers and screams for Sam. The younger Winchester whispers and pleads and begs for him to stop sobbing so forcefully. He somehow dresses him in boxers and a new t-shirt before shuttling him into the bed, where Dean practically engulfs himselfon Sam's side, burying his face into his chest.

"How's your stomach?" he asks.

Dean shrugs, but doesn't say anything. He's still a crying mess. His soaking wet hair is standing up in every direction, and his eyes are incredibly swollen and bloodshot. Sam holds him closer and runs a hand up and down his back as he listens to the sobs become less body wracking until they're so subtle that he barely notices them at all. Dean is almost asleep on top of him when Sam finally realizes something incredibly and utterly important in their journey together.

"We're brothers," Sam whispers. "And, no matter what, we'll get through this."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed this, haimavati! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	88. EmilyLeona

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all for favoriting, following, requesting, reviewing, and reading! I truly do appreciate it all! =)

EmilyLeona requested: "So I'm thinking season four again when Dean is struggling with his time in Hell. He passes out on a case and Sam thinks it's just from stress and exhaustion, but then the following morning Dean won't make up. Kind of like Bobby in Dream a Little Dream of Me. Sam is in a race against the clock to save his brother and needs all the help he can get." Time for some Castiel! I've been waiting to add him in here for a while now.

* * *

EmilyLeona

* * *

_November 7, 2008_

Sam is trying to read quietly in the passenger seat of the Impala, but he keeps tugging at his shirt collar every few seconds. His skin is tight and uncomfortable, and he can't seem to stop fidgeting. Despite the heat in the car being on to block out the rainy fall afternoon, there's an odd chill in his bones. Neither of them has been feeling well the past few days, and Sam believes it's finally starting to catch up with him. He clears his throat to rid the annoying, persistent, tickling clog residing in his esophagus, sniffling almost immediately after.

Dean's eyes are half-mast next to him, and he looks as though he's barely hanging on to consciousness. So far, he has avoided swerving off the road and into a ditch on their way to interview some witnesses who saw three teenagers internally combusting into thin air, leaving behind a quantity of pink dust. His face is devoid of color, he didn't do anything more than run fingers through his hair this morning, and the bags beneath his eyes are darker than ever.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this today?" Sam offers. His body is in desperate need of rest, and, while he has been sleeping, he knows Dean hasn't been. Since he came back from Hell about a month and a half ago, he's lost a considerable amount of weight and has to drink a copious amount of whiskey to be able to even relax. Sam's nose is now beginning to run, and he wonders how Dean is honestly feeling. Both of them are quite accustomed to getting sick at the same time.

The older Winchester glances over at him and then back at the road. "Why? You okay?" His voice is raw from lack of use, causing Sam to internally cringe. He's at a form of a standstill here with his brother. He can choose to lie and say that he's fine and risk Dean shutting down even more. Or he can tell the truth, cause Dean to worry heavily, but, in return, possibly make him realize that it's alright for him to tell Sam that he's under the weather too.

Sam shrugs. "Just run down."

He can feel the tension and hesitation radiating off of Dean in waves. He's clearly unsure of what to say or how to react. "I'll stop at a motel if you want," he offers. "No use in doing this if you're sick." Well, that didn't go how he expected. He figured he would have informed him that he feels the same way and that a day off would do them both some justice, but sometimes he forgets that the brother that came back from Hell is not the same brother he used to have.

Dean is much quieter now. He's always been snarky and has a massive attitude problem, but Sam knows it's just a coping mechanism that eventually overtook his actual personality. Dad once told him that Dean went fifty-three days without talking at four years old after Mom died. Sam was about fourteen when Dad mentioned that little fact, and he couldn't believe a kid who could barely write his own name would just stop talking.

His brother was eventually diagnosed with PTSD when Sam was nearly a year and a half old, one whole year after the fire. Sure, it dissipated, and eventually the pain of losing Mom became nothing more than a nightmare that he slept through to Dean, but that trauma must be similar to the agony he faced in Hell because, while the older Winchester has a habit of going silent every November second, he has never been this reserved and almost shy about speaking.

Sam decides to shake his head and wave his hand nonchalantly. If Dean needs to work, then he'll work side by side with him. He never wants him to think that he doesn't care about him, which he knows is often how he processes concepts mentally. "I'll be okay." He's made it through actual, full-scale hunts with the flu, pneumonia, and a chest infection that, eventually, knocked him flat on his ass for almost an entire month. He can make it through a few interviews.

They pull up at the first house owned by Ms. Charlotte Brady, a sixty-four year old retired elementary school teacher. One of the three teenagers was standing outside her house talking to his friends before his explosion episodes. Sam shakily pulls himself out of the car, but not before dabbing his runny nose with a tissue, trying to at least look presentable. He's out of breath by the time they reach the front door of her house; Dean isn't fairing much better.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Brady. I'm Agent Miller, and this is Agent Boyer. We're here to ask you a few questions about Lucas Kiefer," Sam says, flashing their fake FBI badges. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean does the task robotically. The elderly lady invites them inside, which Sam is immensely grateful for, especially since his nose felt like it was going to freeze and just fall off, despite it clearly being filled to the brim with snot.

Ms. Brady smiles. "Would you boys like any tea or coffee? Maybe a hot chocolate?"

They both shake their heads, but it's, once again, Sam that has to speak up. "No thank you, ma'am," he says in a nasally voice. "We're fine."

Sam and Dean sit down on the old sofa, where Dean is almost awkwardly close to Sam. He is practically on top of him; they never really sit to where their elbows are touching, but the younger Winchester doesn't mind. It's panicking him, yes, and he can't tell if the warmth he's feeling is from his brother or himself. Maybe the dark blond is trying to tell him something. He knew they shouldn't have come here, especially with both of them being this way.

It's about halfway through the interview, and Dean hasn't said more than ten words maximum. Sam starts to notice that he's becoming restless next to him, like he needs to piss or stretch his legs, kind of like how he was getting in the Impala earlier. And it's only when Dean goes completely still and taught against him, head on his shoulder, that Sam realizes something is wrong. Holy shit. Anxiety creeps up his back and leaves him trembling.

Did Dean just pass out? Shit. They weren't even doing anything strenuous.

"Should I call 911?" Ms. Brady asks, worry evident in her voice.

"No!" Sam shouts, not meaning to exactly 'shout' per se. "He's been sick for the past few days. I'll get him back home, and he should be fine." And, with that, he staggers with an unconscious Dean hanging around his shoulder, somehow drunkeningly walking even though he's more than simply out of it. He tried to pick him up bridal style, but Sam can't find enough strength or energy anywhere inside of him to carry his one hundred sixty pound brother out of here.

He places Dean in the passenger seat. The second he gets inside the car, he begins to roughly shake his shoulder. His eyes pop open, unfocused and glazed over, but Sam doesn't really feel a fever through his suit jacket. Jesus Christ. He's literally crumbling and deteriorating with exhaustion and stress, so much so that he's passing out in strangers' homes. "Hey," Sam whispers. "Are you okay?" Obviously he isn't, but he wants to hear an answer for his own sake.

Dean nods. "'m 'kay. Sl'py."

And that's all the incentive Sam needs to fishtail out of here.

* * *

_November 8, 2008_

It's morning after the passing out episode. Sam's running a fever of 102, and Dean hasn't woken up since Sam got him into bed yesterday afternoon. The younger Winchester is running on fumes, despite having slept for nearly thirteen hours, and he isn't sure if he should wake his brother up at all. But, lately, when Dean does fall asleep, he's restless and tosses and turns continuously. This time, he's stayed in the exact same position all night long.

Sam is trying to pay attention to his computer screen, but his eyes keep falling shut in order to block out the bright light from this display. He pillows his head on his arm, hunching over the table as shivers wrack his body. If Dean were awake, he would be shoving and forcing him into bed, and he wishes, more than anything, that his brother would take care of him. Being the baby of the family is something that Sam never really enjoyed as a kid, but he found out that there are some things he can never escape from, even as an adult.

He watches his brother's comforter rise up and down with his steady, deep breaths. Sam is quivering from exhaustion, and every inch of his physical being is freezing, but he isn't sure he can rest until he knows that Dean is okay. He doesn't want to be the bad guy and disturb him while he's finally getting some rest, but it's been hours upon hours, and his fever only gets higher every time he checks it, no matter how much medicine he takes.

So, Sam decides that now is better than never. He trudges over to his brother's bed with his feet feeling like they're made out of lead and limbs dangling like they weigh an actual ton, rubbing his shoulder carefully. Usually, there's some kind of protest or his eyes pop straight open, but, this time, Dean doesn't even move from his position. Sam sits down on the edge and keeps shaking, hoping that he'll wake up soon so he can feel better.

"Dean," he says. He doesn't flinch, move, or fidget. He doesn't snort, grumble, or mumble. Sam's heart is beating hard, and his breath is growing shallower with each passing second. Why isn't he waking up? What's wrong with him? He checks for a fever, but he's even a little on the cool side. He checks for a bullet wound or to see if he's somehow bleeding out, but there's no sign of any physical trauma. Shit. What is this? "Dean!"

* * *

Sam's teeth are chattering as he screams at the top of his lungs outside their motel room. Thankfully, it seems as though they're the only people staying at this joint for the time being, and he would much rather his shouts of desperation get lost into the open air than penetrate through the walls. Plus, he's already tried yelling in Dean's ears as loud as he physically can, anyway. "Castiel!" he calls. "Please... Please help me. I can't get Dean to wake up."

He's only met this Castiel once, and, to be honest, he seems like a prick, but he's the only shot he has. He's called Bobby, who is doing some frantic research and also dialing up his buddies to see if they can help out. Bobby told Sam to not worry too much and that he'll fix this, but clearly hiss surrogate father has never really met Sam Winchester before because he's the king of worry, especially when it comes to possibly losing his older brother.

Sam has been outside for about thirty minutes, and he's just about lost his voice entirely. He is bundled in his winter coat with a beanie covering his destroyed hair, and his eyes are becoming more and more unfocused with every moment they're open. But he's not going to stop, even though he's sure he's blue in the face by now, because he has to get Dean back. He already lost him for four months; he literally can't stand to lose him again.

And, out of nowhere, there's the sound of flapping wings, and Castiel, the spikey, dark haired angel, appears in front of him. "What the hell took you so long?" Sam asks hoarsely. "I've been screaming for half an hour!" He coughs, followed by a sneeze, which then transforms back into a full blown hacking attack. Tears drip down his cheeks, and he rubs his throat once he's finally able to stop his coughs momentarily, his eyes glazed over as he looks at Castiel.

"What is wrong with Dean?" he questions.

Sam shrugs and then proceeds to wrap his arms around himself, snuffling quietly. "I dunno. He just won't wake up." He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and coughs wetly once again before shuffling inside with the angel following closely behind. He points over to Dean's bed, where the lump of his unconscious brother is still sprawled out on his stomach with a hand smashed beneath his cheek. "I've done everything I can think of to get him back..."

Castiel nods. "How long has he been like this?"

"About three o'clock yesterday afternoon."

"Do you mind?" Castiel asks awkwardly, motioning to sitting on the side of the bed. Sam waves him on, and the small brunette takes a seat, reaching over him to place two fingers on to his forehead. Sam practically collapses on top of his bed, hunched over and coughing, but determined to see the rest of this thing through. He refuses to give up until he sees Dean's eyes pop open once again, and he's coherent enough to actually speak.

"What's wrong?" Sam inquires once he sees a pensive expression appear on the angel's face.

"Your brother," he says. "He seems to be dreaming. Well, a nightmare is more like it."

Sam's eyes widen, and he shifts to hug himself against the frigid temperatures in the motel room. "He won't wake up because of a nightmare?"

Castiel nods. "Whatever he's dreaming about is holding him there."

"Do you know what he's dreaming of?"

The angel glances away, an almost guilty look overriding everything else Sam sees in him. "Hell."

He should have expected that answer. Dean's had a multitude of nightmares since he's been out of the Pit, and he'll shout his way through the wee hours of the morning unless he's conked out by too much whiskey. Dean won't even begin to tell him what happened down there, and Sam has gotten to the point where he knows he's going to start really pissing him off if he doesn't back off. So, he does what little brothers do best and leaves him be about the subject.

"Can you... um, fix it?"

"It won't be easy or pleasant for your brother, but yes."

Sam nods and coughs harshly. "Okay," he says. "Will you please?" Even though Castiel seemed like a big bag of dicks when he first met him, he seems a bit different now. And, honestly, the last thing Sam wants to do is anger an angel of the Lord, who could probably smite him right here and now and not blink or fret once about it. Plus, he misses his brother badly, and he's in no mood to fight over logistics. To put it simply, he wants his brother back.

And, so, Castiel stands up, situates Dean to where he's lying on his back, rolls up his trench coat and dress shirt sleeve, and sticks his bare hand into his brother's stomach area. Sam cringes, and Dean's eyes pop open instantly, but they're bloodshot and still unfocused, and he's screaming his fucking lungs off. "SAMMY!" he shouts, and Sam immediately lunges over to him, grabbing ahold of his hand as Castiel finishes doing whatever the hell it is he's doing in there.

Dean curls in on himself the moment the angel removes his hand, tears spilling over his flushed cheeks. "Is he okay?" Sam asks. "What did you do to him?"

"I put his soul to rest."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Castiel shows no emotion for Sam to play off of. "I gave his soul a chance to rest so that the nightmares would stop for a while. This is really dangerous, Sam Winchester. Your brother needs to start coping with this before his nightmares swallow him whole for good." And, just as quickly as he got here, he vanishes before Sam can ask anymore questions or even thank him. Sam returns his attention back to his brother, who is damn near sobbing.

"Dean," Sam whispers, turning to where he's coughing into the crook of his elbow instead of into his brother's face. He taps his cheek lightly and makes Dean crack open his still exhausted eyes. "You're okay now, buddy. Everything will be okay." He is panicking over what the angel said about Dean's nightmares eventually and inevitably ruining him, but, right now, he is so freaking happy to see him awake and alive and even a bit on the alert side.

The older Winchester grabs a fist full of his sweatshirt hidden beneath his coat and leans his face into it. Sam tries to pull away, but Dean's grip is strong. He doesn't say anything when he pries Dean's fingers loose, and he climbs in behind his brother. The blond rolls on to his other side and buries his head into his chest, tears flowing freely and soaking into the fabric. Salty liquid begins to pour down Sam's face as he listens to his brother sob in agony.

He has to fix this. For Dean.

* * *

_November 9, 2008_

Sam is standing over the bathroom sink, tiny specks of blood coating the counter as he viciously coughs and spits and hacks. His knuckles are ghost white, and his eyes have practically sank into his skull. His insides are shaking, and his hands are trembling as he tries his best to feverishly wipe away the mess he's made. The younger Winchester sways on his feet once he hears a quiet knock on the door; he doesn't have the strength to open it.

Dean places a cool hand on his shoulder, his facial features relaxed and soft, much like how he used to appear on a daily basis before Hell. Sam gives him a bloody smile, and Dean barely returns it before sitting him down on the toilet seat. He wipes his face with a washcloth so cold that Sam shivers and tries to pull away, but his older brother's hand firmly on his clavicle keeps him calm. He leans into the touch and never wants it to stop.

"Sammy," he says so quietly Sam has to strain himself to hear it. "Put this under your arm for me."

He must remember the tall brunette's hesitation of thermometers. He's always found it unsanitary and used to hate it when Dean would try to do it himself. He isn't exactly sure why, but it's one of the only things Sam won't allow him to do if he's coherent enough when he's sick. Sure, he'll let Dean dress him in new clothes or help give him a bath, but, for some reason, taking his temperature has always been something he hasn't been overly fond of.

"103.8," Sam repeats once he blearily reads the numbers.

Dean kneels down in front of him and begins to remove the layers of clothing he's wearing, leaving Sam trembling and damn near convulsing as he struggles against his brother. He hears the shower water turn on, and he knows exactly what is going to happen next. Cold shower. Fantastic. He rolls his eyes the best he can and holds on to Dean's hand once he settles down on to the bathtub's floor. The ice cold water feels like tiny knives are cutting him over and over again.

Once the torturous shower is over, Dean wraps Sam up in a towel and begins to dry him off before changing him into light grey sweatpants and his navy blue hoodie. He somehow gets him into bed, even though the younger Winchester knows how much of a deadweight he currently is. Then, there's asshole-tasting medicine being coaxed gently down his throat, followed by a warm, familiar body for him to wrap himself around.

"D'n?" he mumbles sleepily.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"'m sorry 'bout Hell."

There's an unwelcomed silence, and Sam's breath hitches in his throat. Tears swell in the corners of his eyes, and he clutches on to Dean as hard as his weak body can manage. He wants Dean to know how much he loves him and cares about him and wants him to get past this. No matter what though, he knows they'll get through it together because that's what the Winchester brothers do. "Me too, buddy. But you need to go to sleep now. We'll be alright."

And Sam believes him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, EmilyLeona. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	89. WillowWinchester (IV)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! It means more to me than you will ever know! =)

WillowWinchester requested: "So, in the episode following Bobby's death, Dean is super sleep-deprived because he's so focused on trying to decipher what the numbers were that Bobby gave him. Or, if you want to put it blatantly, doing everything in his power to get revenge on Dick Roman. Maybe you could make his sleep-deprivation more than just exhaustion? Like, include other symptoms and things that have occurred due to lack of sleep?

For example, sleep-deprivation can cause someone to be clumsy and dizzy. So, pretty much clumsiness, dizziness, and extreme fatigue could somehow result in a minor car accident of sorts. Dean could only be injured slightly, kind of like how he and Sam were wounded in the other car accident in season 7. Maybe a broken leg or a minor bash to the head." Wow! This is another detailed prompt, and I've been excited to try this one out for a while now!

* * *

WillowWinchester (IV)

* * *

_December 6, 2011_

**45489**

Dean's right hand is trembling as he furiously writes down notes the computer is generating about what these Goddamn numbers could mean. So far, he doesn't have a frigging clue, but, in a way, these were a part of Bobby's dying will; whatever they mean, it's something crucial and important, and he's going to figure it out. Trying to make sense of something that he doesn't have the slightest idea about is frustrating, but he's determined to do this.

He hasn't eaten or slept in the four days since Bobby has passed. His stomach no longer is growling viciously at him, but his eyes are so swollen he can no longer wear his contacts, and he can't seem to stop shaking. He's sitting at a makeshift kitchen table in some shitty motel room across from Sam, who is reading through some of Bobby's old books in order to help decipher the numbers. Dean's vision blurs, and he removes his glasses to rub them both with his thumbs.

"Why don't you go to bed, man?" Sam asks. "I know you're beat."

Dean shrugs. "I'll be fine."

He isn't quite as sure as he normally is about him being alright, but that answer is going to have to do it for now. He's so wrapped up and involved in these numbers that he's practically forgotten how to function as a normal human being. Sam had to beg him to swallow a bite of a hamburger yesterday, and he threw it up the instant he tasted it. Typically, this kind of food rejection takes at least two weeks for him to work up to, but he's so... Who cares?

Bobby's dead; that's all that he knows. Dad died years ago to save his life, he's lost Sam twice, lost Lisa and Ben, then Cas, and now Bobby is gone too. He's so sick of this life and what it does to him, but, especially after his adventures last year, he knows there's no escaping it. He thought that he would be okay with Lisa and Ben and was moving past the PTSD related to his brother taking the swan dive into Satan's box, but now he knows hope is gone.

If Bobby couldn't survive this fight, then there's no way in hell they will.

Dean yawns and tries to knead away the pain in his eyes and head, but nothing seems to work. He's been popping Advil on an empty stomach, which ends with him puking violently, and he's even tried using ice packs when the discomfort becomes unbearable. His entire body is cold and feverish, despite being bundled up in one of Sam's coats and having a blanket draped over his legs. His head is spinning so much he's not sure how he's still awake.

But, more so than anything, he wants to shoot Dick Roman is his fucking mouth and feed his body to a hellhound. Goddamn Leviathan. Cas is dead, Lisa and Ben don't have an idea of the year he spent with them, and Sam is trying to coax him into talking about his feelings. He wants Dick Roman dead, and he isn't going to stop until he knows what these numbers mean, how to kill Big Daddy Dick, and makes sure Bobby's death wasn't in vain.

"We should talk about this, Dean," Sam says.

Dean doesn't bother glancing up from his notepad. "Talk about what?"

Sam scoffs. "About you, man. You're falling apart! You won't eat, you won't sleep, and you're obsessed with these numbers!"

The older Winchester slams the pen down and glares at his younger brother. "Shut up."

Sam's eyebrows furrow, but he shakes his head. "No. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"Doing what? Trying to figure out what Bobby meant with these numbers? Trying to kill Dick? Last time I checked, that was my job!"

"You're bottling everything away like you always do! Hasn't this happened enough by now for you to know that you need to talk about it?"

Dean shakes his head and angrily stands up from the table, blanket falling to the floor as his heart thumps wildly in his chest. He walks around while massaging his forehead with his fingertips, trying his best to keep his cool. He has literally zero desire to talk to his brother about what's going on in his mind, and he doubts he would be interested in hearing it anyway. He doesn't want to be a chick or anything, but he misses Bobby... more than he ever missed Dad when he died.

He learned to move past Dad's death when he realized how reliant he was on his orders. Without Dad's instructions, his life seemed purposeless, like he was put here just to be Daddy's little soldier. With him gone, he got to make decisions and discovered that he was in charge of himself. Don't get him wrong, he misses Dad like hell and would give anything to have him back, but Sam taught him that he should have stood up all those years.

But Bobby... The man did anything and everything he asked. He used to take him to the park and give him ice cream and have him behave and act like a normal kid growing up. He loved going to Bobby's house because he felt full and relaxed, and he knew that Bobby could take care of Sammy, too. The world was on his shoulders starting at four years old, and he had to look after two growing people all while trying his best not to be a baby and cry about it.

"Dean," Sam says, standing up and placing his hands on his shoulders.

The older Winchester wriggles out from beneath his touch. "Stop it, Sam."

"I just want you to talk about it! Why is it so hard?"

Dean shakes his head and tries to hide the tears that are beginning to form in his eyes. He scrubs a hand down his face. Sam is trying to help, but he can't do this right now. He grabs the car keys, his glasses, and slams the door loudly on his way out. The instant he puts the keys in the ignition, tears stream down his cheeks, and he quickly peels out of the motel parking lot, leaving Sam in the dust, much like he wishes he could do for his emotions.

* * *

It's a few hours later when Dean has to stop driving. He pulls over at a gas station, takes off his glasses, and rests his head on the steering wheel. Unfortunately for him, he spent most of the time he was cruising down the road bawling his eyes out like a petulant child, and he has to regulate his breathing by focusing on something else because his meds are out. He used most of it last night when he was damn near having a freaking panic attack.

With there being only a few weeks until Christmas, of course it's starting to snow. It's not much, just some flurries, but it's enough to make him regret coming out here in the first place. He can barely keep his exhausted eyes open any longer, so there's no way he'll make it back to Sam. He'll pull over at some motel later on, but this is the only rest stop he's found for miles. He may even sleep in his baby if the snow picks up or worse comes to worst.

**45489**

The numbers swirl around in his mind, causing his breath to hitch in his throat. Shit. Stop. Just stop. He's literally driving himself crazy. Dean punches the wheel with both of his fists, tears once again finding a way to leak out of his sore eyes. He can't do this. He doesn't want to be this person, and he doesn't want to live in a world where there is no Bobby Singer, the only person who has never once lied to him and took him into his home when he had nowhere else to go.

And those five digits are all that he has left in this world to remind him of his final days. He can't think past the blood in the backseat of the van or the baseball cap with no owner in the trunk or the final mutter of "idjits" before he flat lined. He knows there are more happy memories stored somewhere in his noggin, but they're currently impossible to penetrate because he's just so tired of it all. He wants to curl up in a ball and sleep for a week, but he can't.

Dean puts his glasses back on, throws on a knit cap Sam left in here nights ago, zips up the borrowed coat, and shoves his hands in the pockets as he walks almost drunkly into the gas station. He needs to take a leak and get out of here before the snow gets too heavy. There are a few customers in here stocking up on items, and he accidently bumps into two of them on the way to the bathroom. "Sorry," he mumbles quietly.

His vision is spinning, and he can't stay focused as he pees into the urinal. He braces on hand on the wall for support, and he yawns loudly. Okay. He needs sleep now. For once in four days, he's actually somewhat confident he should be able to get some shuteye without the aid of too much alcohol. He zips up his pants, washes his hands, and proceeds to trip over his own two feet on the way out of the gas station. Shit. Normally he has better reflexes than this.

Dean is focusing what little energy he has remaining on murdering Dick Roman for what he did and getting to a motel for the night. The road is never ending in front of him, and he is so dizzy that it's about to make him upchuck all over his baby. His eyes droop closed, and he jerks awake, taking the wheel along with him. He momentarily swerves into the other lane, but wakes up a bit more after that. His eyes can only stay open for a few seconds longer.

And, before he knows it, they close for good, and he feels the Impala spinning.

* * *

Sam keeps glancing at his phone every couple of seconds to see if Dean has texted or called him. He has his ringer volume completely up for that reason, but he can't stop checking for himself. He should have cooled off a little by now and is hopefully heading back, but Sam is getting ready to call him for the fifth time in a row. He knows that trying to open his brother up is tricky and irritating and, for some reason, literally seems to kill Dean, but he has to talk to him.

The younger Winchester got him to eat a single, solitary bite of a hamburger yesterday, but he threw it up almost immediately. On top of that, he hasn't been sleeping at all and is starting to deteriorate with exhaustion. Sam could tell by how badly he was shaking, and he wouldn't be surprised if Dean was temporarily anemic or something by how cold he's been from literally eating nothing. No matter what Sam does, nothing works.

Bobby would be the person he would call under normal circumstances if Dean were acting this way. But Bobby's dead, and now Sam has to get adjusted to solving his problems on his own. He needs more help with his brother than he honestly thought he would, but Dean is taking this dangerously hard and is shutting down in the process. Sam feels like if he were to open up about his emotions, he would feel leaps and bounds better, but he won't have any of that.

Getting Dean to talk has always been difficult. Dad never really asked about how either of them was feeling, and, if he did, he usually asked Sam. He was four years younger and had clear signs of coping issues, while his older brother just did as he was told with no questions asked. When Dad was away, the younger version Sam sometimes was able to get Dean to talk to him, but that stopped when Dean was eighteen and Dad beat him nearly senseless for Sam running away.

He wants his brother to know that he's hear to help and listen, but, sometimes, he fears that too many of their own bridges have been burned. To be honest, Dean has been all there since a few years back when Sam trusted Ruby over him, and, believe him, Sam regrets every second of that. But between that, leaving for Stanford, becoming fiercely addicted to demon blood, going to Hell, returning with no soul, telling him that he didn't give a rat's ass about him, and his most recent abandonment after Dean killed Amy, he's bound for issues in the trust department.

And Sam understands and acknowledges that. Bobby was the only person, besides Cas, who lied to him also and then died, Dean could trust. With him gone, forcing Dean to break down his walls is going to be hard. He remembers how tough of a cookie he was to crack after Dad's death. He remembers screaming at him about how big of a hole Dad left when he died inside Dean, and this is the same scenario. Only, now Dean is even more damaged than ever.

Sam's cell phone buzzing on the table shakes him out of his trance. "Hello?" he answers, not even bothering to see how it is.

"Is this Sam Jenkins?"

Oh shit. His heart drops into the pit of his stomach. "Yes."

"You're listed as your brother Dean Jenkins emergency contact."

He nods. "Yes."

"Your brother was admitted to St. Joseph's Hospital an hour ago after a car accident."

Shit. Fuck. "Is he okay?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't relay information over the phone."

Sam hangs up the phone without another word. He types in the area code of the phone number into Google, finds the zip code, and discovers Dean is just outside of Saint Charles, Missouri. He grabs a coat and slips on some shoes before realizing that his brother took the Impala. Jesus. He crashed his baby... He's going to be pissed about that more than anything. Sam hotwires a random car in the motel parking lot, and he peels out of there.

* * *

He arrives in Missouri in just under seven hours. Sam parks sloppily and races inside the hospital, determined to find his brother. "Dean Jenkins?" he asks the lady at the front desk, nervously tapping his fingers on the countertop, waiting rather impatiently for her answer. "Please. I need to see him. He was brought here for a car accident." He is about to explode with anticipation, and he doesn't need another vomiting episode like the five times on the way here.

"ID?" she asks.

Jesus. He just needs to see his brother. He thumbs through his wallet for the identification card labeled Samuel Jenkins and hands it hastily to her. He swallows the growing lump of puke that is rising steadily up the back of his throat, and he tries to calm himself by breathing in deeply. He is just hoping and praying that he's okay. The receptionist hands him the ID and eyes him almost mysteriously before handing him a visitor's badge.

"He's in room 218."

Sam grumbles a quick "thank you" before rushing down the hallway, clipping his badge on in the process. When he reaches his room, a doctor is standing beside his bed, writing down notes on a chart. He glances up from his clipboard once Sam steps into the room, sweaty, disheveled, and entirely out of breath. And then he gets a good look at his big brother's appearance and tries to keep level headed. Maybe it looks worse than it really is.

Dean's face is marred with scratches and cuts. Slightly above his eyebrow and on his left cheek are stitched closed with several individual ties. His right leg, the one he broke just two months ago back at Bobby's scrapyard, is nestled protectively in a cast, and his right wrist is also in a cast. Shit. Dean is going to be pissed when he wakes up. Sam doesn't even want to know the state of the Impala. No matter what, though, he's going to make sure Dean is okay.

"I'm guessing you're Sam?" the doctor questions.

He nods and comes forward to shake his hand. "How's my brother?"

"A little worse for wear, I'm afraid. His right leg is fractured in three places, right wrist broken, a few cuts and bruises, and a moderate concussion. We were looking over some X-rays of the leg, and it looks as though it's still in the process of healing from two other breaks."

Sam nods, gulping and trying to make himself relax. "He... he, um, broke that leg about eight weeks ago."

He neglects to inform him that Dean cut the cast off six days early, which could have caused more damage, especially since he only needed four weeks in the cast before.

"That would explain it," he says, nodding. "We want to keep him here overnight to monitor his condition, possibly even the next two days. Your brother was exhausted and had a fever of 103 when he was brought in here. He needs some decent rest, and I believe he should be okay. But I'll quit jabbering and leave you two alone. Let us know if you need anything."

Sam gives a weak smile. "Thanks, doc."

The instant the doctor leaves, the younger Winchester sits beside his brother and puts his head in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks.

* * *

_December 7, 2011 _

"S-Sam?"

The brunette shakes himself awake the second he hears his name being called. Dean's eyes are finally and actually open, even though one of them is nearly black, and they're both bloodshot to hell. "Hey, Deano," he whispers. His brother begins to tug at his IV, glancing up at him in confusion. "You're in the hospital, buddy. You... um, sort of crashed the 'Pala..." Sam trails off at the end, in fear of what his brother's reaction to that might be.

"How?" he asks sleepily.

"Doc says you were exhausted," he says with a shrug.

The older Winchester scoffs and folds his arms across his chest, his eyes reading the massive disappointment he's feeling. It's probably not even about him being hurt; it's most likely because of the Impala's situation. But, for once in days, the dark bags beneath his brother's eyes have receded quite a bit, and he's more alert and coherent, even for having a concussion. Dean curls up and cringes in pain the moment he tries to move his leg.

"Not again..." he mumbles. "You look terrible, by the way."

Sam chuckles. "You look pretty shitty yourself. I've been worried about your ass all night."

And then there's this moment of silence that swells over the room, and, for once, it's comfortable and welcoming. Dean fiddles with the cast on his wrist, and Sam glances back down at the book on his lap. "I miss him, Sammy..." he hears Dean say. "I miss him so much it hurts, and I don't know what these numbers mean, and I wish that he were here..." His voice is so quiet and freaking fragile that Sam has to move closer to listen.

He grabs his uninjured hand, rubbing his thumb up and down it. "I know, buddy. I know."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, WillowWinchester! Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	90. Averystorm (III)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. I wish I did, though.

* * *

Thanks for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

I'm not sure if everyone is aware of this or not, but Jared had to leave JIBCON on Friday (well, it was Friday where I was). At first, the word was that he wasn't feeling well, but then he sent out two rather alarming tweets saying for us to keep him in our thoughts and that he is in desperate need of his family. I receive tweets directly to my phone, so this really scared me.

But then I watched a video of Jensen explaining why Jared wasn't there to the crowd. Jared has given us a lot, perhaps too much, and he has mentally and physically exhausted himself. I just want everyone to pray for him and wish him the best. Everyone in the _SPN_ family gives a lot of themselves, and I think they are all in need of some down time. This is a hard time for Jared, and I want him to know that all of us have his back. Afterall, we should never stop fighting.

Averystorm requested: "Could you write one where Dean gets strep throat shortly after being cured of being a demon in season 10, and Sam and Jody Mills take care of him? You can make up your own reason for Sheriff Mills being at the bunker; I just want her to help take care of Dean." Aw, poor Dean (again, haha)! I have written quite a few stories about what happens after he is cured, and I wish something like this would have happened on the show!

* * *

Averystorm (III)

* * *

_October 25, 2014_

As far as Sam knows, Dean hasn't left his bed once today. The last time he peaked inside his room, he was sprawled out comfortably on his stomach, snoring a bit too harshly. Since he was cured from being a demon, the younger Winchester has been hesitant about leaving him alone for too long, but, each time he's regained consciousness in the past few days, Sam has been checking thoroughly to see if he's free of black eyes. Despite his worries, he has to regain his trust.

It's easier knowing that demon wasn't _actually_ the Dean he knew and loved. Sam realizes that, when he makes mistakes, it's typically fully him. About six years ago, he trusted a demon over Dean and said demon ended up screwing him in the ass. Sam became addicted to guzzling blood like some kind of junky. But Dean adorned the Mark of Cain to slaughter Abaddon and, ultimately, overthrow and kill Crowley, destroying Hell in the process.

But he also took on this burden because Sam wasn't there. If he had been there to help his brother way out the decision and cost together, both of them would have made the right call. It's as though they're so co-dependent that they each end up making a massive mistake that harms the other. Usually, it's mental and emotional pain, but Sam can still recall breaking a few of Dean's ribs one night in a motel room when Dean threatened to kill Ruby during a heated argument.

The demon version of his brother was ice cold. It scared Sam to the core to see the one person he loved and cared about most in his life turn into a cold, manipulative, son of a bitch who was entirely selfish. Dean used to cut the crusts of his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and read to him every single night before he went to sleep. Even in adulthood, Dean will lay with him if he doesn't feel well and cook for him like he always used to.

It's hard to even imagine someone who took care of him in the most sincere ways being so twisted and having a distorted perception of reality. He knows his brother better than anyone, and, while he is sometimes cocky, unreasonable, and intensely stubborn, he would never do anything to intentionally hurt someone. And, as a demon, he _tried._ He wanted people to suffer; he wanted _Sam _to suffer. The whole "Sammy let me go" note sticks out the most in his mind.

The brunette Winchester is trying to forgive and forget. God knows how many times Dean has had to do the same. He is attempting to finally step up as a man and not just as a brother. Dean should never think that he isn't here for him, and he wants to use this time to patch up their fights and mistakes in the past. Maybe if they work on getting themselves fixed up, their relationship will make the recovery he knows Dean has been striving for for the past year.

But, for now, Sam will let his older brother sleep. He knows that Demon Dean had plenty of sex, greasy food, and late nights, but he doubts he once laid down for a solid night's rest. It doesn't take much to satisfy his brother either, so he knows his exhaustion has to be damn near crippling if he can't stay awake for longer than an hour at a time. Last night, he tried to get him to eat dinner, and he nearly face planted into his plate of spaghetti.

Dean is burnt out, and Sam isn't too sure he isn't coming down with something. He started noticing how he rolled around in bed clutching his inhaler and had somehow submerged himself inside Sam's charcoal hoodie that he didn't he know he still had; those are classic signs of him not feeling well. But, to be honest, he should have seen it coming sooner with how much the demon liked to party and run around. Since they moved into the bunker, Dean has turned into a different guy in those respects and usually spends his nights watching TV beneath a blanket while sipping on scotch and laughing at dumb jokes on _South Park._

Their specially designed, secret knock is patted out on the bunker's main entrance, and Sam glances up from his laptop to stare upstairs in a puzzled manner. Huh. There are only three people outside of them of who know this code: Charlie, Cas, and Jody. He figures it is Cas because the last time he talked to him on the phone he sounded like shit. Sam jogs up the steps to answer and smiles when he sees Sheriff Jody Mills standing there with a bag at her feet.

"Sam!" she greets, instantly throwing her arms around him.

The younger Winchester hugs her back, but not without wincing at the dull pain flaring up in his shoulder. He has been exercising it and trying to get it back up to warp speed, especially with it being his dominant arm, and he's decided that he doesn't really need the sling anymore since they haven't been hunting in quite some time, and he hasn't done anything too strenuous. He actually thinks that it's healing nicely, which is good compared to the crappy news he's used to.

"What brings you here, Jody?" he asks, picking up her bag with his left hand and walking back to the library table.

The woman shrugs. "I caught a case for you two and just figured I'd stop by to show you."

Sam nods, but then kind of sighs. "Listen, uh, Jody... We are taking a bit of a break."

"What? Why? Are you guys okay?"

"Well, you remember what happened to Dean, right?"

She nods. "Yeah, but I heard you cured him."

"I did, but he's... having a hard time readjusting. In fact, he's been sleeping most of time. I don't want to push him too much."

Jody sets the file down on the table and takes a seat across from Sam. He bites his lower lip in almost shame. He has never really had to turn down a case before, but there is no way he's leaving his brother to go on a hunt. Even if Dean wanted to go, he wouldn't make it past two hours without falling asleep with his head on Sam's shoulder, which is how everything he can think of has turned out since he was cured a few weeks ago.

"Is he honestly okay, Sam?" she asks.

He nods, grinning slightly to reassure her. "He's fine. It's just that the demon version of him never slept."

"And you're okay?"

"I'm good," he says. He notes that Jody is about to stand up. "Where are you going? You just got here."

She shrugs. "Well, you don't want the case, so I thought I would go..."

He shakes his head, gesturing for her to sit back down. "No no no! It's okay if you want to stay. I've been wanting some actual conversation anyway. Dean hasn't exactly been a Chatting Cathy." With that, the sheriff smiles and retakes her seat at the table, interlocking her hands together as she listens to Sam babble. He knows he' rambling, but he hasn't had anyone to talk to in nearly a week and a half, and it gets super boring after only listening to himself for days.

They're two Coke's in apiece when Sam hears shuffling and padding down the hallway. He turns around just in time to see Dean with a dark blue blanket pulled over his shoulders, swaying there miserably. He immediately stands up and puts gentle hand on his back, guiding him to sit down with them. Sam's worry triples when Dean lays his head on his shoulder the second he collapses into the chair for two major reasons that would really only frighten a Winchester.

He's burning up, for one. The heat radiating off of him in waves is suffocating and damn near blinding to Sam, who is trying to wrap his mind around how Dean managed to get himself in here like this in the first place. Number two is that it's extremely rare for his big brother to succumb to being under the weather this early in the stage of illness, much less want to obviously cuddle him. Whether he used to be a demon or not, that's still weird.

Sam plants a quick kiss on top of his hair before eyeing Jody, who looks almost just as concerned as he is. "Dean," he says quietly. "What's wrong?"

The older Winchester shrugs, but he doesn't dare to utter another word.

"Sweetie," Jody says from the other side of the table. "Talk to us."

The only response they receive this time is Dean pointing adamantly at his throat.

"Sore throat?" the sheriff asks.

He nods, but something about this still isn't settling quite right with Sam. It obviously isn't a cold because there's no snot or coughing, which, at this point, is the only thing he can really imagine it to be. But he has a hunch about where to go with this diagnosis. "Open your mouth for me, buddy," he commands nicely. Dean does so with little hesitation. Sam sees the white patches and the red dots near the back of his throat and, right away, he knows what's going on. "Strep."

"Strep?" Jody inquires.

"Yep." Fantastic. This is just perfect. Here Dean is recently cured from his demonitis, won't wake up long enough for the two of them to have a conversation, and now he's pretty sick. He's decided that nothing will ever go either of their ways. But he doesn't have the time and shouldn't dwell on these facts. Dean is going to need him more than he has in a while right now, and he has to be there in every way possible to let him know how much he still cares.

The dark blond Winchester puts his head back on Sam's shoulder, but he nudges him away this time. Instead, he motions to Jody to go get the first aid kit, which, somehow by the grace of whoever or whatever, knows where it is and what he means right off the bat. Jody has strong intuition skills though, so the fact that she can pick up on concepts well isn't a huge surprise to him. She returns about a minute later, handing the kit to Sam.

He gives his brother antibiotics that will probably make him even more drowsy and groggy than he already is and even a small dose of Tylenol to help bring the fever down. And, even though all Dean has been doing is sleeping, Sam's next task is to bundle him into bed. He helps his brother stand up and motions to Jody that he'll be back in a minute or two. They stumble drunkenly down the hallway together before Sam tucks him in beneath two comforters.

"Go to sleep, Dean. Everything will be alright. I promise."

* * *

Jody hasn't known Sam and Dean Winchester for that long, but she knows a few things for certain.

One: Sam is more or less the brains of the operation, while Dean normally uses his ambition and drive to tactically take out whatever supernatural creature they're fighting. They're the best damn partners she's ever worked with, and she highly suspects that it's because they're brothers. Sam does the research, informs Dean about it, and then Dean creates a plan. It's strange to watch them work because it's so synchronized, perfect, and undeniably amazing.

Two: They must have had one hell of a father. Sam has mentioned once or twice that their mother died when he was a baby, but she's never heard Dean even begin to talk about her death. But both boys have talked about John Winchester, who used to have fiercely high expectations and cared very little about Sam's outstanding grades or Dean's new and useful inventions. He only put enough effort in to make sure his sons came out to be the greatest hunters in the world.

Three: Both Winchesters have this thing for being sacrificial toward each other. Jesus, Dean has saved Sam's ass more times than she can count, and that's just in the times they've ended up hunting together. It's automatic, and she knows both of them have given so much of each other that picturing their lives without their brother is unforeseeable. But, last year, Dean went a bit overboard and wound up completely breaking Sam's trust.

Jody doesn't know them all that well personally, but, through her observations, she thinks that both of them need to take a break. This is why she isn't worried about the case she brought to them being tossed away because they're _finally_ doing something smart. Dean's sick and was recently a demon, and Sam is in dire need of some TLC himself as well, especially after his shoulder injury and chasing his brother all over the country.

She is just finishing up dinner, which is a lovely meal of vegetable soup and bread; it'll be soothing to Dean's throat but not overwhelming to either of them. They both look like they've been tossed through the ringer, and she's pretty sure neither brother was that small the last time she saw them. The weight loss is evident in both, and she has a funny feeling that, while Demon Dean probably ate, it only happened every so often, so he practically starved. And Sam most likely was too wrapped up in research and retrieving Dean to worry about anything else.

The sheriff leaves the soup in the pot so it doesn't get cold and goes to gain the brothers' attention. Sam is fast asleep in the recliner in their makeshift living room, snoring loudly beneath the blanket she threw over him a while ago. She shakes his good shoulder, and he snorts awake, scrubbing a hand down his stubbly face. "Time's it?" he mumbles, glancing around the room wildly as he tries to focus on what is going on.

"A little past six. You guys need to eat."

Sam shakes his head. "You didn't have t' cook..."

"I know, but I did it anyway. You both need someone to take care of you."

He nods and yawns and then stands up. "I'll go get the drinks."

Jody is just about ready to protest and say that she is perfectly capable of handling this entire dinner, but it's best not to argue with the Winchesters. So, she lets him get the drinks and goes to wake up Dean, who is curled in a tight ball on his side on the couch, shivering and shaking even in his sleep. She can tell it isn't deep or comforting, and the fever is practically swallowing her whole by standing beside him. She kneels down and taps his cheek lightly.

The older Winchester's eyes are bloodshot and glazed when he somehow musters up the strength to open them. "Dinner time, sweetie," she whispers, carding her fingers through his damp hair. Dean's only response is a shake of the head before he brings up a hand to rest on his neck nonchalantly. She guesses it's his way of telling her that he's not hungry, but she doesn't care. This boy needs some actual nutrients in his body, otherwise he'll never get any better.

She's about ready to try to coax him up again when Sam sets down three glasses of water on the table and heads back over to them. He carefully slides his hands beneath his brother's body and gently lifts him up bridal style, carrying him to his chair beside him. "It's easier this way," Sam informs her. "It doesn't give him a choice. I doubt he has the energy to move much anyway." Jody nods; it does make sense afterall. And she only chuckles slightly when Dean scowls.

Jody pats Sam on the back and goes to get the pot of soup and three bowls for them. She sets the food down in front of Dean first, who crosses his arms over his chest and proceeds to lay his head back on his younger brother's shoulder. Sam nuzzles his head briefly on his hair, but then makes him sit up right when a bowl is placed in front of him. "You should eat, Dean. It's not too often that we have a girl cook for us," he says, nudging his arm.

Dean rolls his eyes, but lifts up a shaky hand to eat the soup anyway.

"Well, that's a winner right there. Nice job, Sheriff," Sam tells her.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry about the awkward ending, but I hope this was okay, Averystorm. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	91. sparx

**Author's Note:** I do not own the brilliant television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so very much for favoriting, following, reviewing, requesting, and reading! =)

It's my first day of work at my new summer job! I've been in orientation the past week, but now I finally get to do something besides sit and listen, haha. Wish me luck!

Fun fact: It's also been one year exactly since I graduated from high school. Time flies!

I'm sorry about the semi-shortness of this one. I had a lot on my mind while writing it, and sometimes that gets in the way.

sparx requested: "Dean is getting sick, or more like exhausted, keeping up with Robo Sam. He doesn't notice himself, and neither does Sam. When he does, he doesn't feel like asking for any help, at least not from this Sam. Dean could be hurt as well from the previous hunt. Bonus points for Dean shivering in cold (and Sam being amused) or back arching in pain or whatever you like. The fatigue becomes an issue with the brothers are waiting out on a hunt. And Sam is inconsiderate at first, but then he realizes he should be helping instead."

* * *

sparx

* * *

_November 28, 2010_

Dean just finished chugging his fifth cup of coffee this morning with shaky hands. He is so entirely jacked up on caffeine that he has barely slept in almost a week. The constant alcohol was starting to really get to him and make him super hungover at during the day, which just couldn't happen while trying to keep up with Sam. So, sure, he's spiked one of his beverages with whiskey (it was just _one_), but it was absolutely necessary to keep him from passing out.

Sam is... Well, Jesus, he's freaking soulless and has zero basic instinct. The kid can't feel a damn thing, and Dean is getting tired of having to chase him around and look over his shoulder every two seconds. This is the same Sam that let him turn into a vampire for information to give to their bastard grandfather and who has told him on numerous occasions that he doesn't give a rat's ass about what happens to him, so there's no way he's going to let him out of his sight.

But the constant "go go go" of their lives is becoming slightly overwhelming to the older Winchester. Sam doesn't need to sleep or eat, but Dean does. Even if it's only his usual four hours of sleep every other night, it's better than this. He's tried to hint to Sam about how exhausted he truly is, but, of course, the robot that is his little brother doesn't understand that. He's given up on trying to make him see the light as far as him being tired goes.

The wear and tear is one thing, but Dean's hands are now constantly shaking, he's consumed way more alcohol, coffee, soda, and energy drinks than recommended, and he's so wiped out that functions such as eating and going to the freaking bathroom are being put on the backburner. He has to keep this going though, otherwise Sam is most likely going to leave him in the dust. Every fiber of his being just wants his actual, caring brother back.

He's getting dressed in, for once, a halfway decent motel bathroom. There was no shit or piss in the toilet upon their arrival, they tub was cleaned of stains, and there wasn't any suspicious splatters on the walls and ceilings. He calls this place a win in their book, especially with the conditions they're typically forced to endure. Dean's eyes are too swollen for contacts, and, for the third day in a row, he's resorted to walking around blindly.

At least it's better than only wearing a single lens...

Not to mention, his left knee, the one he had surgery on a few years back, is flaring up again after being twisted while running a few nights ago. He can hardly move without being in pain, but at least he has a brace and an entire bottle of painkillers he refused to take afterword to rely on. He wears the brace beneath his jeans, which all fit loosely now, to not cause alarm to his brother. Huh. Who is he kidding? He already knows how shitty of a situation this is.

It's not that Sam would notice or care that he's struggling, but he doesn't want any form of weakness to be present, which is why he has to keep going. Dean feels as though he could drop and fall straight to sleep sitting on the toilet, but he isn't going to do that for Sam's sake. He's moved past the point of being pissed; he's hurt and doesn't like to be in the same general area as him, but he has a job to do. Just because Dad's been dead for four years doesn't mean that he suddenly loses the whole "watch out for Sammy" concept.

And Sam needs him now more than ever. Since he can't feel anything and can't recognize emotions, Dean is his conscience, whether Sam likes it or not. He doesn't feel safe or protected around the robotic version of his brother, but having him at least here is better than nothing. Sure, Lisa and Ben are gone, but the one thing he's wanted since he went to live with him is his brother. And he'll find a way to fix Sam; there isn't a doubt in his mind that there's a cure for this.

Dean exits the restroom, his trembling legs carrying him to sit down across from his brother. His vision blurs, even though he's face to face with Sam, and he wishes to have his Sam back more than anything. "What's up?" Dean asks, trying to hide the pain in his voice from stretching out his knee. He isn't in a chatty mood, but he needs to make his younger brother think that today is going to be just like any other. He discovered a few weeks ago that a routine makes him easier to deal with.

"Found us a case," Sam announces, pushing the laptop toward his direction.

The older Winchester squints, and he can't really see anything without his glasses. Normally, he can push through the discomfort and read for a while without needing assistance, but, combined with how tired he is, it's a recipe for disaster. The words are blurring together on the screen, and he shakes his head, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Can you just tell me?" he inquires, trying to not sound as irritated and weary as he honestly feels.

Sam shrugs. "Sure. Middleton, Wisconsin. Three young females have committed suicide all in the same way: jumping from the local bridge that crosses into the next town."

Dean's eyebrows rise. "What're you thinkin'?"

"Ghost possession."

The blond nods. "Sounds good to me," he says, pushing himself up weakly with shaking arms. He goes to put on socks and lace up his boots while Robo Sam packs up the car, which is a whole new level of difficulty with his swollen knee. His fingers will barely cooperate, and everything around him is hazy, which is just causing him to become dizzy and nauseous. His actual brother would toss him into bed and most likely rub his back until he fell asleep, something that only the real Sam would do for him.

He gulps and runs a quick hand through his hair.

They're no closer to finding a way to get Sam's soul back, and he isn't sure how much more he can take.

* * *

It's a couple hours later when Dean begins to realize that there's something drastically wrong with him. He's achy and feverish and can't seem to stop sniffling to save his life. He's dabbing his runny nose on every tissue they have in the Impala and eventually has to ball up one of his old t-shirts beneath his nostrils to keep them from dribbling said snot down his neck. Jesus. His body feels like it's made entirely up of lead, and he can't get rid of the stabbing pain behind his eyes.

Sam has since taken over the wheel since Dean was too preoccupied trying to keep himself dry to bother with driving. His brother doesn't seem to be paying attention to how leaky his nose has become or that he's developing a chest-rattling cough that's causing him to use his inhaler every couple of minutes. His breath hitches in his throat and seems to be glued in that position, so he takes another huff, even though he knows he's definitely used way too much lately.

They're about three hours away from Middleton, and the older Winchester isn't sure how much longer he can keep going. Even in the passenger seat, he's completely miserable and can barely breathe. He wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep for the week he's been constantly awake, but there's no reasoning with this version of his brother. Dean coughs wetly into his t-shirt, not exactly wanting to spread the germs around.

Wait... can people without souls get sick?

He isn't sure, but, at the same time, he just needs sleep. His knee is throbbing and is actually demanding to be stretched out, which normally hurts even more. His head is pounding relentlessly into his skull. His throat feels like needles have been jabbed deep inside his esophagus. And his fucking nose. He could literally rip it off and throw it on the ground with his bare hands if that were possible. He is so freaking sick of it pouring everywhere.

"Sam," he mumbles. "Can we pull over?"

The robot glances over at him, not an ounce of sympathy to be found on his face. "Um, do you have to piss?"

He nods. "Yeah."

Dean can see that Sam almost wants to smile there, but he doesn't. He's probably just relieved that there's nothing wrong with him and that he just has to use the restroom. This Sam is somewhat okay with keeping up with the bathroom break schedule. But, thankfully, he never follows him inside the gas stations because he's normally sneak-drinking whiskey or throwing up violently. He isn't sure what's going on with him, but, any time he manages to eat a small something, he ends up kneeling before the throne.

By the time he pulls over, Dean has to practically barrel out of the Impala. He tucks his hands in his pockets and walks briskly inside, thankful that it's warm and inviting as opposed to freezing and unwelcoming. He heads immediately into the bathroom and cups his hands full of lukewarm water, rinsing off his face. His head is spinning, and he hangs over the sink, trying his best to calm his rapid, shallow breathing. His fingers won't quit trembling.

Eventually, he sinks to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He immediately shoves his head in the middle and shivers as he attempts to regain his composure. Tears stream down his flushed cheeks. He can't do this anymore. Sam needs to be here to help him. He needs Sam just as much as Sam needs him. And it sucks to do all of the legwork, and he's in desperate and absolute need of sleep. Surely Sam can see that...

It takes some time, and he isn't sure how long he's been sitting there, but he's finally able to push himself to his feet. He washes his face one more time before limping back out to the car, eyes drooping with exhaustion. His nose decided to leak all over his jeans when he was in the bathroom, but he's sure it can pass as water for the time being. He grabs the t-shirt from the backseat and shoves it beneath his nose, catching the snot just in time.

He leans his head heavily on the ice cold window and coughs quietly, his breath fogging up the glass. Dean is massaging his left knee absentmindedly when he notes that he can feel Sam staring directly at him. He glances over and raises his eyebrows, motioning with his hands. "What?" he inquires. Okay, this is almost so identical to what his actual Sam would do that he has to swallow back the vomit rising in his throat. _Quit pretending to be him._

"Everything okay in there?" Sam asks.

Dean nods. "Spectacular. Let's get out of here."

* * *

Sam has decided that it's too cold to sit outside and wait on their possible ghost possession victim, so they're waiting it out in the car. Dean is more than okay with that, but he's shivering and shaking so hard that it doesn't really matter. He's freezing and freaking hot at the same time, and he's having a hard time even distinguishing up from down right now. Sam shakes his shoulder, and Dean grovels, pulling away instantly. "'m awake."

"Okay. Just checking."

_Since when do you care anyway?_

Dean rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. He trembles violently and tries not to demonstrate just how pathetically awful he is feeling. The only issue is that his shivers are shaking the whole damn Impala, and, while Sam may be soulless, he isn't stupid. He bites his lower lip as another bout of crazy coldness rattles his insides, and he coughs violently into his coat sleeve. Son of a bitch. Why did his body choose now to crap out on him?

And then he hears Sam chuckling beside him, and he damn sure knows it isn't from some cat video he loaded up on YouTube. No, this bastard is actually laughing at how terrible he feels. He glares over at him, but he suspects it resembles more of a pout because Sam is damn near wiping tears from his eyes from this mess. "What the hell is so funny?" he asks, his voice booming despite the fact that he feels like shit three times rolled over.

"How did you get that looks face like that?" he inquires, still laughing.

Dean shakes his head, biting his lip. "At least I'm better looking than you."

"Great comeback."

The older Winchester rolls his eyes once more and re-crosses his arms. He doesn't say anything else, and glances back out the window to further inspect. Nothing is going on in or around the house, and he is so freaking sick of being out here. He gets that Sam doesn't understand, but damn. Dean has been worn so thinly that he isn't sure how tomorrow is going to go down. He guesses he'll just continue to use the whole "one day at a time" mantra.

"C'mere," he hears Sam say.

"What?" he asks, eyes widening when he sees him patting the seat next to him.

Sam nods. "You're freezing and sick," he states.

Dean shrugs. "So what?"

"So come here."

"I think I'll pass."

"Fine. Suit yourself."

They sit in an awkward silence for a few minutes before Dean finally breathes out a "what the hell..." and scoots to sit beside his brother. He will admit that the extra warmth on his left arm has been much anticipated since they started out on this journey, and, honestly, it feels nice to have his brother by his side once again. Even if this isn't the real Sam, it's still his brother's mind, therefore he must have some inclination as to what he's doing.

Dean wordlessly lets his head dip on to his shoulder and slips into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope this was okay, sparx. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	92. Nymph

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thanks for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! I truly do appreciate it! =)

I'm really sorry about the shortness of this one, but I just got home from work, and I am beyond exhausted.

Nymph requested: "I was wondering if you can do this one: Dean with a dental issue (whether cavities from too many pies, broken tooth from a bar fight, severely impacted wisdom teeth, etc.). I actually really need to get my wisdom teeth removed, and that will probably happen within the next month, so I've decided to give poor Deano some of my pain, haha. At least I know for sure that the descriptions of the pain will be right.

I'm going to set this in beloved season one.

* * *

Nymph

* * *

_April 26, 2006_

Dean is poking at his steak with his fork, glancing it over as if it's poisonous. Sam is watching amusingly, smiling and chuckling as his older brother's facial expressions grow in hilarity. "What's up with you?" he asks, taking another bite of his hunk of meat. He has a salad on the side, of course, but, once he heard Dean's order, it instantly sounded wonderful. But now Dean hasn't eaten anything other than his mashed potatoes, and it's creeping him out.

His brother shrugs. "Just not as hungry as I thought I was, I guess."

Sam nods, but he isn't buying into it that easily. Dean hasn't been acting like his usual annoying self for the past few days, and it's pretty weird if one were to ask the younger Winchester. While Dean doesn't talk all that much in general (and, when he does, it's all snark and sass), he is particularly good at driving him absolutely crazy. He doesn't pick up after himself in the motel room, listens to the same cassettes multiple times a day, and chews so Goddamn loudly.

But he hasn't been doing those things lately. In fact, he hasn't heard the oldies rock station on the radio or that extremely worn out ACDC cassette in four days. Huh. Sam cocks his head to the side and continues to stare at his older brother, searching for some answers in his mannerisms alone. Dean is slouching over a bit, which was a massive no no in the Winchester house(s) while growing up. He's a tad on the pale side, and there's a thin sheet of sweat lining his forehead.

"Are you okay, man?" Sam inquires cautiously. Questions like that tend to make Dean angry and turn his aggressiveness on immediately. He hasn't been around his brother for that long since being gone to Stanford for four years and barely speaking, but he does know that that is the sure fire way to irritate the hell out of him. Dean doesn't enjoy being babied, coddled, or smothered, and he's become even worse about all three since he left for college.

Dean nods and looks straight into his eyes. "I'm fine. Why?"

Sam shakes his head. "You just look... tired."

The older Winchester beckons for the check and slips out a twenty from his wallet without another word. He stands up, almost wavering a bit as he starts to walk out of the diner. Sam bites his lip and gulps. That's it. There really is something wrong with him, and he needs to figure out what it is. About five weeks into their hunt for Dad, Dean came down with the flu and completely neglected to inform Sam about his condition until he found him passed out in the bathroom.

Since then, Dean hasn't been sick once, but he's had a few close calls with spirits, monsters, and such. He's busted his wrist and has been conked on the head way more than just once. He still didn't want to tell Sam about how badly he was injured, and Sam had to figure it out on his own. He suspects he'll have to do the same here, and his mind is leaning more toward illness rather than injury right now. He should definitely know by tonight.

But, for now, he's going to let Dean drive his baby without saying anything else, checking in closely on how he handles the ride. He keeps grimacing and wincing behind his sunglasses, which are hiding his eyes from the late April sun, and he clearly doesn't know that Sam is observing out of the corner of his eye. Dean is definitely fighting something, and it's up to the youngest Winchester to figure out just what it is.

* * *

Dean is relaxing on the surprisingly comfortable motel bed with Sam reading a novel beside him. While this joint is nicer than quite a few of the places they've stayed at, it was overbooked, and they had to opt for one queen sized bed instead of two fulls. His older brother doesn't seem to mind at all, so Sam doesn't have any issues with relaxing next to his warm body. Dean has stripped down into just light sweats and a t-shirt and is curled into a loose ball.

He's watching television, but, every so often, Sam notes that his area of the bed goes completely still, almost as if Dean isn't lying there anymore, like he vanished into thin air. There's no breathing or shifting or fidgeting, and, for a brief moment prior, every muscle in his body seems to clench up. And, then, just before the younger Winchester is about to ask if he's okay, he releases the tension riddling his being, and his breathing returns to normal.

Pain. Sam senses it immediately; it helps that he's been a younger brother for nearly twenty-three years now. Dean, just like him and everybody else in the universe, has these signs that basically advert his attention straight to him, even though he's trying to be discrete about how he's feeling. He doesn't know where the pain is currently located, but he figured that it won't be long before he finds out. He just hopes Dean is honestly somewhat okay.

"Dude," he says. "What's going on?"

The older Winchester shifts to glance at him, but he grips his cheek before he makes it. He brushes away the sudden agony and finishes rolling over to glare angrily at Sam for asking such a "stupid" question. He's trying to pretend that Sam didn't see it, and it's even more obvious when he flinches away from his touch, attempting to forever mask the obvious pain. So it's something in his mouth. Well, Dean does eat a lot of candy... Maybe a cavity?

"Nothin'. 'm fine," Dean mumbles, turning the other way. Sam can feel the massaging of his general mouth area through the other side of the bed in a familiar, comforting pattern. Suddenly, he realizes that his brother hasn't eaten solid food in days. He handled those mashed potatoes at the diner like a champ, but he no longer chews on hamburgers and steaks. He also loves milkshakes, but he claims that it's too cold outside even though it's damn near May.

Wisdom teeth? Sam had his out his sophomore year of college after his jaw and guns became extremely sensitive and tender, and it hurt to even breathe because the air felt uncomfortable around his inflamed mouth. He stopped eating anything particularly hot or cold, didn't want to talk all that much because the swelling rubbed against other parts of his mouth, and he even started to get a tad feverish right before Jess made him get them removed.

This affliction accounts for the symptoms and goes as far as to explain why he's been so subtle and quiet the last couple of days. He hasn't been acting like himself, and Sam remembers Jess telling her the same thing when he became irritable and cranky whilst sick. The major issues, like getting Dean to admit that his mouth is bothering him and getting him to agree to see a dentist, have yet to be tackled, but Sam has to keep some faith in himself.

"Dean, I know your mouth hurts," he states. It's better to cut the cord and automatically admit that he knows something is wrong, despite all of his valiant, yet failed, efforts to conceal it. He is becoming increasingly tired of his brother hiding everything from him. A few months back, Dean fell straight on his left wrist during a hunt, broke it in two places, and still somehow managed to keep it from him for nearly three days before he noticed.

And that kind of shit really pisses Sam off. Since a few months before he left for Stanford, his older brother had been withdrawn and doesn't seem to even want his help anymore. When he was truly hurt or sick, Dean would cave in and allow for Sam to baby and coddle him, but, the moment he saw the acceptance letter, everything changed. Dean still did anything and everything for Sam with no complaints, but he was reluctant to get any attention on him.

Dean shakes his head. "Does not," he pouts, despite the fact that Sam can tell even just saying that hurts like a son of a bitch.

"Then why won't you eat anything tough or cold?"

He shrugs. "Guess I haven't been in the mood for it."

"Uh huh. Y'know, you can cut the crap any moment."

The blond Winchester rolls his eyes and doesn't hide the newest round of jaw and temple rubbing. Sam knows how much wisdom teeth suck dick, and they typically cause a shit ton of headaches and nearly migraines in the process. "Fine. Hur's a li'l..." He doesn't bother to annunciate his consonants, and Sam guesses it's because clacking his teeth together to say them is anything but pleasant. Shit. This could get ugly.

Sam sits up in bed and hoists Dean into the same position, standing to click on the overhead light. He beckons for his brother to open his mouth, and he winces and cringes when he sees how red and swollen the inside of it is. The back corners of his mouth are nothing but mountains covered in blood, and he can tell right away that his brother hasn't been able to fully close his mouth in days, possibly even a week if he's judging it correctly.

"Buddy," he breathes out incredulously. "Why didn't you say something?"

Dean shrugs and doesn't make eye contact.

"Shit... We gotta get you to the ER now."

"Wha'? Why?"

"They're impacted and look infected. It's really dangerous to walk around like this."

"I c'n handle it, S'mmy."

Sam tosses on his shoes and socks and shakes his head wildly. "Let's go with a 'no way in hell' on that one."

* * *

_April 27, 2006_

"'s my wife, Shannon," Dean murmurs sleepily through puffy, bruised cheeks. Sam cringes and has literally zero idea how his brother is managing to speak through the horrifying ordeal that is waking up after an impacted wisdom teeth extraction. He didn't talk much after he left the dentist's office, and Jess made him eat soup and yogurt while they laid around and watched TV all day. But Jess is dead, and Sam is struggling to cope with that on top of his delirious brother.

Sam can't help but chuckle. "When'd you get married?" He's sitting cross-legged in a green plastic chair beside Dean's dental lounger. His brother has a medical bracelet on, and it's sagging off his skinny arm as he points to the red haired woman who is removing his empty IV of sedatives. He doesn't know how he's awake either, but this is better than he originally thought it was going to go. Normally Dean is too stubborn to even come here.

First, they flew straight to the ER in the Impala, and the doctors gave him a once over before sending him off to an emergency dental facility. Dean's wisdom teeth were beginning to become infected in top of their impaction, so it was imperative that they kept him for the immediate surgery. He had them removed around ten at night, and it's now past one in the morning, and they're about to head back to the motel if he can get Dean to settle down first.

"Two weeks," he informs happily through a mouthful of gauze. He looks like a drunken chipmunk.

The red haired nurse smiles. "He'll be back to normal in no time."

Sam grins and listens to his brother babble on about how some werewolf attacked him and called him Skippy in the summer of 1987 when Sam was nearly thirteen years old. Huh. Sam was only four that year, but whatever floats Dean's boat right now will do. He doesn't correct any of the information and only nods and laughs along with him because, hell, it's the first time he's seen Dean happy in months. And he's not actually happy; he's high as a kite happy.

"S'mmy..." Dean grumbles. "Love you..."

The younger Winchester clasps Dean's hand in his own. "I love you too, Deano. Let's go home."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, Nymph. Thank you for requesting, reviewing, and reading! =)


	93. Deanmon

**Author's Note: **I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

These last few requests are probably going to be a bit on the short side. I work from 8 AM to 5 PM, and these take hours to work on. I do a lot of heavy lifting and walking at my job, so I'm tired when I get home. Then, I have to write one of these afterward because is the only time I have, and I, unlike Dean, at least six or seven hours each night. Plus, I still have no Wi-Fi, so I have to type these on Word on my MacBook and then retype them on my iPhone to post.

Needless to say, it's a pain in the ass, and the shorter the better at this point. I know that sounds bad, but I have a lot of fluff and backstory and such my other lengthy chapters, but I simply don't have the energy and patience to continue doing that. I love typing these on my computer, but I can't stand rewriting and formatting them on my phone in the mobile version of . I am terribly sorry, guys. I truly am.

Deanmon requested: "Could you write one where Dean gets a fever and starts having fever dreams of the night Mary died? Sam of course has to help him through it. Maybe we could get a bonding scene where they talk about their mother? Preferably set during season one, but any season works." Season one is perfect for this, especially since I believe this is where the most focus on Mary lies between Dean not being willing to talk about it and Sam being curious.

* * *

Deanmon

* * *

_March 13, 2006_

Dean's running a fever of 100.2. It's not very high, but it's enough to make him jumpy and irritated. He acts as though his skin is breakable and sacred, and he's shifting and fidgeting uncomfortably on the scratchy sheets. Sam is thankful he caught it early and hopes that it should be entirely broken by tomorrow morning if he gets plenty of rest and medicine. It took a shit ton of yelling and arguing, but the youngest Winchester finally got him to stay in bed.

It's been four months since Dean came to pick him up from Stanford and four months since his girlfriend's death. Sam still has the ring... It's buried deep within a duffel bag, the one that they keep in the Impala for digging up graves. He wouldn't care if Dean saw it, but he doesn't want to explain anything to him. There's a Jess sized hole in his heart. He was going to ask this woman to marry him, most likely on the upcoming weekend, by taking her to see a play, out to dinner, and then proposing in her favorite park... The same one they met at late in his freshman year.

He was going to do all of these things, and, with a single "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days," everything fell apart. He wonders if the Yellow Eyed Demon would have came for Jess if he had been home. Maybe if he never left, none of this would have ever happened. He should have told Dean to screw off, and, even though every fiber in his being wanted to, he didn't have the heart to do it. Part of him was happy to see his brother.

But he was supposed to be back on Monday. He was supposed to ask the most beautiful girl in the world for her hand in marriage. He was supposed to get an acceptance into the law program. He was supposed to live a normal, apple pie life with Jess and maybe a couple of kiddos running around in the front yard. He was out of the family business, and he never thought in a million years that he would suddenly be tossed straight back into the life.

Now, he's with his brother on a mad search for their absent father. It's the story of their lives, but Sam doesn't need or want to be alone right now. The depression has settled deep into his bones and nestled into his brain, and being here with Dean helps. His brother has always been the one constant he has in his life, and, despite how terribly he annoys him, he wouldn't trade a thing. But, without Jess, life itself seems useless and unimportant.

Sam is sitting on the bed next to Dean's, staring directly up at the ceiling. He imagines Jess's blood drip-dropping on his cheek and smells the smoke and feels the burning heat of his future fiancé dying above him. His breath hitches in his throat, and his insides start to mimic shriveling up. He tries to exhale, but he can't. Sam can't stop looking above and wonders why. Why Jess? Why Mom? Why does everyone besides Dean leave him?

He glances over at his brother, who is watching some cheesy procedural drama with the remote gripped loosely in his hand. The comforter is pulled up to his waist, and his glasses are crooked since he's tucked on to his side. Sam can't fathom how anything he said earlier could convince him to actually listen and relax today, but he guesses Dean needed a day off more than he realized. He figured he's been going nonstop since day Sam left in August of 2001.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

Dean looks at him tiredly. "Yeah."

Sam nods and looks back to the ceiling to see what could have been.

* * *

Dean's running a fever of 101.4. It's moderately high, but it's enough to make him pissy and angry. Sam has had to duck numerous times from shoes, magazines, water bottles, and such being chucked at his face. While he has yet to really move from his position on the bed, Dean is packing a lot of attitude and snark for someone who's fever refuses to break or drop. The younger Winchester is exhausted, but he's got to get his brother to fall asleep first.

He sits down on the edge of his older sibling's bed and lightly places a hand on his shoulder.

"Hands off the merchandise!" he quips, flinching and pulling away.

"What's up with you today?" Sam wonders. This is the second time he's been sick in the four months he's been with him, and he got the same way last time before his illness began to take a toll on him. The higher his fever climbed, the more erratic his behavior got. Sam remembers getting punched in the face and having a black eye from apparently asking too many questions, but then he remembers being cuddled about four or five hours later.

Dean just keeps staring at the TV. "Nothin'."

"Sure, because you always tell the truth about stuff like this."

"Can it, Sam. My show's on."

Sam glances over at the screen. "This is Cops, Dean. You hate this show."

"Shut. Up. Sam."

The youngest Winchester rolls his eyes.

* * *

_March 14, 2006_

Dean's running a fever of 102.7. It's pretty freaking high, but it's enough to make him clingy and desperate. See what Sam means? He is currently trying to get his brother to fall asleep. It's now past three in the morning, and the brunette is running on fumes himself from not sleeping enough as it is. Dean is glued to his chest and keeps nodding off long enough for Sam to think it's okay go drift off, but then he most instantly stirs and jumps and grumbles.

"Can't sleep, S'mmy," he murmurs into his shirt. What's weird about this is that there doesn't seem to be any symptoms of sickness other than a fever. Sure, the fever makes him drowsy and achy, but, unlike the last time, there are not snotty noses or chest rattling coughs. Sam just holds Dean closed and cards his long fingers through his brother's sweat soaked hair, hoping and praying that he will go to bed soon so he can rest as well.

When he was sick, Jess would skip classes and hang out with him all day just to make sure he was okay. Dean used to skip school, even at as young as nine when Sam started kindergarten at five, to give him medicine and read him stories. Jess used to make him soup and made sure he ate every last bit of it, even if he was stuffed halfway through. Dean would force feed and practically shove it down his throat, even though he felt too icky to swallow.

He doesn't understand why his life is the way it is, and it isn't fair. Sam often ponders about how his life would have been different with a mom and a dad, even if they were still in the family business. Dad could have gone out on the hunts, and Mom could have been the brain of the operation. But she also could have been there for him and his brother, and maybe Dean would have acted like an actual kid, and maybe Sam would know what if feels like to have a mother.

Dean is shifting his face a couple of inches every few seconds, and Sam can tell he's completely miserable. He may have helped him shower to cool off, have a cold compress on the crook of his neck, and have a shit ton of NyQuil pumping through his system, but he's exhausted and totally wrenched from the constant stress, hunting, and being afraid of both Dad's return and how Sam is handling Jess's death; Sam knows that his brother has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Shh, Dean," Sam coos, removing his face from his shift.

"Sammy!"

"It's okay, buddy. Try to roll on your stomach for me."

But Dean's mind and muscles are fried from fever, so Sam does it for him. His brother tenses the second Sam's hands, which he just warmed by furiously rubbing them together, make contact with the bare skin on his back. The younger Winchester carefully kneads out the knots and tension with his fingertips, coaxing him softly as he begins to lose his battle with consciousness. And, still, Sam can't help but smile when he finally starts to snore.

* * *

Dean's running a fever of 103.9. It's ridiculously and incredibly high, but it's enough to make him delusional and emotional. He's been sobbing his eyes out for nearly an hour now, and he's starting to run out of tears altogether. Sam has tried, God has he tried to get Dean to calm down, but it's useless. Every time he gets quiet, the brunette knows the wailing is only going to grow louder, and he's literally useless because he has no idea what to do.

He's given him more medicine and is even went as far as to bathe him once again to try to cool off his immensely her skin, but nothing will make his fever budge an inch. Dean is curled up in a ball practically on top of Sam with dried tear tracks stained on his flushed cheeks, but he still sobbing and damn near heaving onto his shirt. He rubs his back and whispers to him over and over again, but nothing he does is lessening whatever turmoil is going on in his mind.

"M'm..." Dean mumbles through his cries, causing him to raise his eyebrows and for his heart to stop beating. Shit. What the hell? he hasn't heard his brother even mention his mother in fucking years... "No! Don't go!" Somehow, there are more tears left in his massively dehydrated body, and Sam's town cleaves to the roof of his mouth, causing him to panic. Worry courses through his veins, and his mind is spinning in literally a thousand different directions.

The screaming and hollering continues, and Sam wonders how the hell they haven't gotten kicked out of this place yet. But, at the same time, he doesn't give a shit right now. He just wants his brother to stop crying, stop breaking down, and stop acting so unlike him. Dean never cries, even when he is feverish. He has no idea why or how this is happening, and will do anything to make him feel better; it's so important to him he's okay.

"STOP! MOM! Burning... Burning... Sammy... Burning... MOM!"

"Okay, okay. Shh. Calm down, Dean. Please stop crying," Sam whispers, pushing him tighter to his body.

Sam's heart is in the pit of his stomach, and he just keep massaging in a familiar circular motion on his back, hoping that the physical contact is enough to keep Dean from going over the edge. The last time he can recall his brother talking about her mother was when Sam was getting ready to leave for Stanford. Dean told him that Mom would've been so proud to have him as a son and that he was proud of him too. It was one of the best days of Sam's life.

But his heart he's breaking even more knowing that it's killing Dean on the inside.

* * *

Dean's running a fever of 99.9. It's barely even a temperature anymore, but it's enough to make him groggy and unresponsive. After earlier this morning, Sam is still too scared to talk to him, especially since it's obvious he's feeling better. He's showered, shaved, and is typing away on their shared laptop at the motel kitchen table. Sure, he's technically still sick, but they've gotten by with much less on much worse circumstances than a very low grade fever.

But Dean mentioned Mom, and that's just weird. He didn't even know his brother still thought about her. He knows that sound bad, but he couldn't exactly town with how little Dean talks about anything related to his childhood. He will be more than happy to discuss a movie or a TV show or a band with him, but he's never quick to mention Mom, Dad, Stanford, Jess, or their past together. He understands, though. In a lot of instances, Sam has always held his brother had it worse than him.

Still, though, he sits down across from his brother at the table anyway. At first, neither of them makes eye contact, so there's no reason for a conversation to be started, but then they lock eyes momentarily. sam's breathing stops once again, and he notes the order sadness and devastation written all over Dean's face. Anguish. Misery. Why does he have to bottle all this crap away? He wishes he would tell him how he's feeling more often.

"Dean?" Same question quietly.

The older Winchester glances up from the computer behind his glasses. "Yeah?"

"About what you said this morn-"

"Shut up, Sam. I don't want to talk about it."

"But, I-"

"Stop right there. I know what you're going to say, and I can't, man."

And this, for some reason, sets the younger Winchester off. Why is it that Dean always gets to pick and choose when they talk about Mom? If he had it his way, Sam would never even know she existed in the first place. He has no memories, no recollection, and nothing of hers as a keepsake for a reminder. Sure, he has seen pictures, and she was so beautiful, but that's all he knows about her because his dad and Dean made it obvious they were pushing away their pain.

"I just want to be able to talk about her!"

Dean shakes his head. "Please, Sam." Tears swell in his eyes, but he immediately tries to push them away.

"No, Dean! Hear me out. You never talk about Mom, and it's literally eating you alive. Can't you see that?"

And then tears stream down his still slightly flushed cheeks, and Sam can tell they aren't from being sick. They are real tears. Big, fat ones at that. He gulps and leans back a little in his seat, fearful for his life this point. Dean scrubs a hand down his clean shaven face and removes his glasses, slamming them down a bit violently on the table. Shit. What did he just do? He doesn't want to make his brother mad, but he's tired of living in denial.

He has a mother. Her name is Mary Winchester.

"She used to call you Sam-A-Roo. Always smiled at that..."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Deanmon. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	94. RavishingR

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazingly awesome television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

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Thank you all for following, favoriting, requesting, reviewing, and reading! I really and honestly do appreciate it, guys! =)

RavishingR requested: "It was a tag to episode 9x11 when Gadreel's grace was being extracted by Cas and Sam being reverted back to his post trials state. Cas tells Dean about this, who gets pissed, but wants Cas to transfer Sam's state to him. Dean then collapses, and Sam then realizes what he's done." Interesting! This is going to be completely AU, and Dean is going to return to bunker because... well... that thing has caused me enough issues, haha.

* * *

RavishingR

* * *

_January 21, 2014_

Sam's nose is gushing blood, but Castiel is trying not to panic. The brunette Winchester is forcefully trying to guide the needle halfway full of Gadreel's grace further inside his brain, but the angel is struggling with an ethical dilemma. They could use the grace to locate the angel who possessed him, but he should really stop with the extraction. Sam won't allow him to, claiming that he killed Kevin and should end up doing something right for once in his life.

But Sam Winchester is a stubborn, resilient human. Sure, he's not as bad as his brother Dean, but he's pretty darn close. Castiel remembers watching the boys grow up together in multiple apartments and motel rooms, and Sam was always rebellious of their father's plan, which inherently just made his independently thinking nature blossom. He felt as though his older brother was the only person keeping him afloat as a child and young adult.

Now, the youngest of the boys is thirty, and he absolutely refuses to let Castiel remove the giant needle. If he pushes much further, there won't be any Sam left, just an empty carcass of what used to be his best friend's little brother. He is already clearly reverting back to his post trial's state, with his lungs being uncooperative and vomiting up massive quantities of blood all over the side of the gurney he's lying on. "Sam! You must stay awake!"

"Huh?" He flinches and squirms and immediately recoils in pain, glancing around the room in a confused manner. His eyes are slow and sluggish, and his movements, which are usually spot on and terrifyingly fast, are as if he's maneuvering through mud. "D'n?" he somehow, beyond the angel's advanced and extensive comprehension, manages to squeak out. Castiel pushes his shoulders back once he starts to thrash around, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

"Red vomit is dripping from Sam's chin, and there are strands of the mess dangling off his chapped lips. This is bad. Castiel instantly removes the needle, only to hear a low moan emanating from the brunette. He's spent quite a few years around humans, this human in fact, and he has some time as an actual human under his belt, and he is fully aware of the scale of emotion and pain. Sam is tipping the pain scale, and he's in a lot of trouble.

"Sam!" he shouts, tapping his cheek with his fingers as he starts to dip out of consciousness. Okay, that's it. He can't get Sam to stay awake, and he has to call Dean. It isn't going to end that way; he already knows. This is especially since the older Winchester lied about the means that he took into his own hands to save Sam, which involved deceit and letting an angel into his brother's body to fix his broken insides. The brothers separated last week, and, as far as he knows, they haven't spoken since they were at the docks that night.

He has no idea if Dean is angry, hurt, or depressed, but he doesn't care. Sam needs help now.

* * *

Dean is in the middle of nowhere showering when he hears his cell phone ring beneath his nest of clothing. He nearly jumps out of his skin, but quickly calms down. Jeez, he hopes it's Sam. He's been waiting and hoping and wishing for his brother to call so they could talk this out. He didn't know about the whole rouge angel thing. Well, sure, he let the bastard in, but he was supposed to be one of the good guys. But, he should have known better since Winchesters have terrible luck.

Shampoo soaks into his eyes, and it burns just as much as leaving Sam last week. He wants to make his brother understand why he did what he did, but he knows there's no way to force him to listen. Sam is done with him... Completely and utterly finished, and, for the first time in their lives, Dean feels like he's done the wrong thing as opposed to the right. He was trying to save his life. Why does his best shot seem so meaningless and empty?

He quickly gets out from beneath the water, shuts it off, and begins to dry and dress himself. Dean pulls on a white thermal shirt, a dark grey and red flannel, and blue jeans before running his hand through his hair and exiting the bathroom. He's still damp, and there is a thin stream of water trickling slowly into his eyes, but he should return this call as soon as possible. Once he sees that it's Cas, there's an instant panic set off inside of him.

What if something is wrong? What if Sam is dead? He knows he's jumping to conclusions, but he literally can't help it. Any time he is apart from his brother, besides the few hours here and there when they're doing research or on beer runs, pandemonium sinks deeply into his veins. Sam thinks they are better off apart at this point and used to feel the same way when he attended Stanford for four years, but Dean definitely doesn't feel the same way.

He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and instantly dials Cas's phone number. There is an answer in a second.

"Dean. You must come back to the bunker." His voice is unnerving.

"What? Why? What happened?"

There is some obvious sign of struggle in the background, followed by Cas clearly trying to sooth someone. "It's your brother. He wanted me to finish extracting all of Gadreel's grace from his mind, but I may have pushed too far."

"Put Sam on the phone!" he orders.

"I can't. He's... Well... He's kind of back into his trial's state."

"Why didn't you call me earlier?" He is trying not to full out scream at his best friend, but it's really hard. Sam is supposed to be safe when Cas is around, not in danger, and certainly not suffering from the affects of which he tried to cure in the first place. He begins to violently grab at his belongings; he swipes his baby's keys, throws on a coat, and doesn't bother switching into contacts before he slams the door to his motel room closed.

Outside, it's freezing and icy and is damn near blizzard weather, but Dean needs to get to his brother.

* * *

_January 22, 2014_

When Dean pulls into the bunker's garage, he bolts out the minute he puts the Impala into park. It's two in the morning, it took him seven hours to get home, and he's worried so much that he's chewed his fingernails until each one is bleeding and has thrown up on the side of the road once or twice. When it comes to Sam, Dean's level of panic is practically on the same level as his brother's under normal (or normal for them) circumstances.

He sprints inside and toward the main living area, anticipating that it's where they'll be, but he's wrong. His heart is racing, and his mind is spinning in each and every direction as he tries to decipher where in the hell they could be. There's a growing lump in the back of his throat, and he is so extremely nervous to see his brother that he's unsure of how to handle himself. There is no way that he can keep his normally strong and steady composure at this point.

"Cas! Sam!" he shouts, cupping his hands over the edges of his mouth.

"Dean!" It's the angel's voice, and the older Winchester runs toward the sound. He ends up in some experimental room that he's been inside one time since they moved into the bunker about a year ago. It's filled with all sorts of weird instruments that made him uncomfortable, so he just never really thought about the area twice. But once he sees Sam passed out on a gurney with blood pouring out of his mouth, ears, and nose, he damn near loses it.

"You need to fix him!" he commands. "Now!"

That's his little brother. That's his Sam. That's his everything. Whether Sam hates him or not, he would die for him in a heartbeat, and he will do anything and give anything to make sure he's okay. It's sometimes a raw deal, but Dad raised him to be more than willing to sacrifice himself for his brother. Afterall, there is no one more important to Dean than Sam. His baby brother was there for him in his darkest hours, and there's no taking away his feelings.

Cas shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"I'm sorry, but did you just say that you can't?"

He nods.

"Last time I checked, I wasn't asking. You did this to him, Cas, and you're going to heal him!"

"I am still weak. I can barely heal my own injuries, much less cure Sam."

The older Winchester sinks on to the stool that the angel was sitting in earlier. Crimson is covering the room, and his brother is wheezing more than he would during a severe asthma attack. Sam's body is shutting down, and he has to do something. He understands that he is pissed off and angry at him for tricking him and having him possessed by an angel freak, but he doesn't comprehend that Dean was desperate to save the only family he has.

"Give it to me."

"Come again?"

"This," Dean states. "I want you to transfer this post trial's crap to me."

Cas immediately shakes his head and takes a step backwards. "I can't do that, Dean. You'll die."

Dean shakes his head this time. "I don't care. Sam can't handle this, man. Give it to me instead."

The angel's eyes are growing wider as he practically pushes himself into the corner of the room. The blond brother grabs ahold of Sam's hand and begins to stroke it gently with his thumb. Anything for Sammy. Anything and everything. Dean would rather die helping his little brother than anything else, and he wants to take away the pain and suffering. When Sam took on the trials, Dean had no idea this would be the consequence.

But, now, he doesn't care. Sam needs to be saved. And it doesn't matter to him that this is what pulled them into this mess in the first place. If Dean had chosen to let him die and close the gates of Hell for good, he would have never been able to live with himself. His one true job in this fucked up universe they live in is to make sure Sammy Winchester, his giraffe-sized baby brother who sucked his thumb until age four, is safe and sound.

"You'll die," Cas repeats. "Sam's body is one thing, but there's no way yours can contain this."

Dean leans back in his charge and folds his arms across his chest defiantly. "Do it, Cas."

"I will not do this to you," Cas says.

"LOOK AT HIM!" he screams, pointing toward his unconscious, but bleeding brother. "I have to do this, man! I have to take care of him!"

"Your brother is ready to die, Dean."

The older Winchester stands up and clutches his fists around the angel's shirt collar, damn near hoisting him off the floor. "You're going to do this for me, Cas," he snarls. "Do it. Now." There are visible tears forming in his eyes as he lets go of his friend's clothing. The brunette angel nods reluctantly and places two fingers on Sam's forehead and two fingers on Dean's forehead. There's a flash of bright blue, and then Dean falls straight to the ground, his vision black.

* * *

Sam's eyes pop open the second his brother's body smacks the tile below. He gasps for air and chokes on what tastes like blood. He feels something wet and sticky sliding off his lips, so he presses his hand beneath it to find a mass amount of red. "What's going on?" he questions frantically to no one in particular. Where is he? What's wrong with him? Where's Dean?... But then he looks down where he heard the thud and finds him.

Cas is kneeling beside his brother's passed out form, using his fingers to try to zap him back. "It's not working," he hears him mumbling. And then the angel stands up and starts to pace the room back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sam gets up too, but is too dizzy to follow in the pattern. He has literally zero idea of what's going on, and he's desperately searching for answers. "Your brother is an idiot," Cas manages to get out. He's pale and sweaty.

The younger Winchester's eyebrows rise. "Cas, what's going on?" he repeats.

He puts one hand on his hip and the other to his forehead. "I shouldn't have let him do this."

"Do what, Cas?!" He's going nuts, and his brain is trying to figure out what's happening.

The angel glares at him straight in the eye, so hard that Sam gulps. "He made me transfer your state to himself."

"My state? What the hell does that mean?"

He sighs and begins to walk the room again. "Each time I jabbed that needle further into your neck caused you to revert further back into your post trial's state."

And that is enough to send Sam somewhere far away, where the deceit is fresh, and he's too angry to even glance down at his brother's lifeless body. But, at the same time, he's frustratingly worried. Dean is cold. Dean is sick. Dean is him back when he almost died. He could have closed the gates of Hell forever and locked away every son of a bitch that has hurt someone they loved. One of those _things_ killed Mom. One of those _things_ killed Jess.

But Dean wouldn't let him die. Didn't let him die. He was ready to go. He was ready to see Jess up in Heaven, but now there is no Heaven. The Vail is busted and broken just like the rest of this fucking world. But now he sees his older brother, the same one who used to bandage his scraped knees and taught him how to ride a bike and gave him the advice that would ultimately get the love of his life to talk to him, lying on the cold, hard ground.

And he can't. Dean's face is hauntingly pale, and he's vomiting up blood even in his unconscious form.

Sam decides to save his brother because, same circumstances, he would do what Dean did in a heartbeat.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, RavishingR. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	95. SiriusHocrux1080

**Author's Note:** I do not own the brilliant television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. Ask Kripke for bragging rights!

* * *

Thank you all so much for following, favoriting, requesting, reviewing, and reading! =)

SiriusHocrux1018 requested: "Dean deals with a UTI (urinary tract infection) during a hunt. Preferably earlier season 1 or 2." Holy cow. Am I the only one who thinks Dean with a UTI would be hilarious? My God, he would be so cranky and irritated, and Sam would think it's hilarious. But seriously... Why can't something even remotely like this happen on the show? I need more hurt/comfort feels and the boys acting like brothers again.

I'm going to set this one in season two. Completely AU!

* * *

SiriusHocrux1080

* * *

_September 29, 2006_

It's hot outside, and Dean's lower back is killing him. They're digging up a grave in North Carolina, and, despite the slight breeze from the ocean that he can feel from damn near Tennessee, he's sweat through his second t-shirt. The light grey has turned dark, and the salty liquid is seeping into his eyes, causing his contacts to feel loose. He wants to wipe them, but he can't in fear of abandoning what helps him see in the dirt below.

He coughs and massages near his kidneys with his fingertips after dropping the shovel. Sam is huffing and puffing beside him, the device clanging in the silt every few seconds as he tips it over his shoulder into a pile. There's a lump growing steadily in Dean's throat, and, for a second, it almost feels like he's going to toss his wonderful cheeseburger lunch right here. Then there's a quick silence, followed by his brother's worried voice penetrating his ears.

"Don't worry," he struggles to get out. "Think I jus' pulled a muscle."

"Uh huh. That's always your excuse."

Sam places his hands on his shoulders and gently pushes him into the hole they're digging in the earth. It's cooler down here than it is up there, and he sits until the dust envelopes them both. He's short of breath, and there's an incredibly hot sensation in his back, one that's gnawing at his muscles as he struggles to maintain his cool. Jesus, if he did manage to pull something, he did one hell of a job because he's not sure if he's going to be able to move for the rest of the week.

And it's just his luck to screw himself over before the real hunt even starts.

* * *

Sam has to drive back to the motel room, and, on the less than a half hour back, Dean makes him stop twice to piss. His brother does it both times with an annoyed expression plastered across his face, and he knows he's beginning to really freak him out. But there's this pain in his back and tingly and warm sensation in his bladder. Barely any urine manages to escape the hose, leaving Dean feeling more miserable and irritated than ever.

He kneads at the uncomfortable sensation as they pull into the parking lot. Sam is clearly exasperated because he just rolls his eyes when Dean squeaks out that he's the one who's going to have to carry in their bags. He doesn't pull this card often, but his back is hurting so badly that he's not sure how he's going to get out of the car in the first place. They're caked in grime and are incredibly dirty, but Dean has to take it one step at a time at this point.

The older Winchester hisses as he pulls himself from his baby, his legs being less than cooperative as he walks shakily inside their shitty room that smells like mold and rotten milk. He wants nothing more than to collapse fully clothed on to their shared queen bed, but he can't. Sam has already darted off to the shower, but he notes that he didn't bring any clean clothes in with him. Dean hears the water turn on and knows he's going to have to help.

But, when he bends over to pick Sam's duffel bag up, his back screams and twists in agony, and there's the familiar sensation to take a leak springing up once again. He tries his best to ignore it as he picks out a clean pair of boxers, ratty black basketball shorts, and an oversized white t-shirt for his brother to relax in, but it's hard. Dean has broken multiple bones and sprained so many ligaments, but this pain is indescribable; it's that bone deep.

He sets the clothes on top of the toilet seat beneath a towel before exiting. He really really really needs to take a piss, but, thankfully, Sam doesn't take long showers. Sweat is still drenching his body, and he's starting to shake with fatigue. He isn't sure how exactly bathing himself is going to work out either, but he's bound and determined to somehow find a way, even though the pain shredding through his lower back is worthy of an award of sorts.

Sam emerges from the bathroom clad in the clothing Dean picked out for him. He's toweling off his hair when his brother pushes past him with his own stuff in hand, locking the door behind him. Dean immediately unzips his soiled jeans and tries to force his usually heavy streams out, but only a small, cloudy trickle is released. It doesn't make him feel any better, and he desperately needs to take an actual piss before he goes entirely crazy.

He strips his ruined clothes and steps into the warm water. For a moment, it soothes his back, but then it just turns into straight discomfort. He's not shy about peeing in the shower, so he tries again, but there are no results this time. There's a pressure build up around his private area, and he is utterly confused by why he feels like he needs to take a leak but can't. He's never had this issue before, and he's only twenty-seven years old; that's far too young for prostate issues.

Dean only throws on plaid boxers and a black t-shirt, feeling awfully hot and stuffy and achy in the room. His face is devoid of almost all color, and his hair is pressed flat against his forehead before he ruffles a hand through it. His eyes are drooping closed as he opens the door, each step toward their shared bed killing his back even more. Sam is watching some stupid late night science show out of the corner of his eye, curled up in a ball beneath the covers.

"You okay?" Sam asks, shifting once Dean lies down in bed next to him.

He winces audibly. "Yeah. Back hurts."

And then Sam is up on his feet in a flash, rummaging through their bags as Dean forces himself on to his stomach when the discomfort becomes too much for him to handle. He still feels like he has to piss and that there are knots in his kidneys, but, the instant that heating pack touches his skin, he feels like he's in heaven. He places his head beneath the cool pillow and focuses solely on his brother's breathing next to him before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

_September 30, 2006_

"Son of a fucking bitch," he hisses, touching his lower back with his fingers once again.

His little brother eyes him from across the diner table. "Dude, there are kids in here."

"I don't care, man. This shit hurts."

Sam rolls his eyes and stares down at the menu, carefully paying attention to however many calories he's shoving into that giant body today. Dean doesn't feel any better than he did yesterday; in fact, he feels a hell of a lot worse. His back was in torn up shreds when he woke up this morning, and the heating pack Sam placed on there was completely cold, which only made things worse. Despite having slept soundly, he's more exhausted than ever.

When the waitress comes to take their order, he doesn't bother flirting with her. He's nothing but a six foot one source of pain, and he can't help but wonder if he has to piss again. It sure feels like it. He gets the turkey sub with a side of potato chips while Sam, go figure, orders a pansy ass salad. Dean coughs into the crook of his elbow at the feeling in his back, and he fondles with his inhaler in his jeans pocket, hoping that the oxygen could provide relief.

But it doesn't. Their typical pain meds aren't helping this situation, and Sam is starting to worry just as much as he is. He's pissed, like, a hundred times today, and nothing he does makes it go away. Yes, Sam has been driving and even offered to stay put at the motel room until he felt better, but this is clearly just beginning as opposed to dissipating. He doesn't want his brother to panic, but that's the route he himself is getting ready to go down.

"Maybe you should go to the doctor," Sam offers.

Dean shakes his head. "Be fine. Just need to rest or something."

"Want to find a motel after this?"

He nods. "This fucking shit is annoying."

"Once again, Deano. There are kids," he says, motioning around to the tykes with vanilla ice cream cones in hand.

"Whatever," he grumbles. "I'm gonna go piss."

The walk to the bathroom is agonizing, but, thankfully, it's a one man only kind of place. He pulls down his zipper and stands there nonchalantly for a few seconds, pushing and praying that his piss will actually come out. Jesus Christ. He's too young for this. Sure, he doesn't eat well, drinks too much, barely sleeps, is constantly stressed, and his bones creak at twenty-seven, but that doesn't mean his body should be shutting down just yet.

Dean glances down to see if he can identify the issue, but that's when he sees the specks of blood beginning to squirt out. Shit. Motherfucker. He closes his eyes and reopens them to see if he was imagining things, but the water in the urinal has definitely turned a tinge of red. He instantly zips up his pants and flushes away the blood with his foot, his heart racing and dropping into the pit of his stomach. Holy shit. What in the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He splashes cold water on his flushed face and tries to rid himself of the spooked look he never sees on himself. Dean practically hobbles out to Sam since the pain and discomfort is terrifying and sits down delicately in the 1950s style seat. "Uh," he says. "We have a problem."

"What?"

Dean leans forward, even though it hurts like a son of a bitch. "Blood."

"Blood? What the hell does that mean?"

The older Winchester motions downstairs with his eyes briefly. "'m pissin' blood."

"What? Dean, do you know how dangerous that is?!" Sam practically shouts, and Dean puts a finger to his own mouth to shut him up.

"Dude! Shut the fuck up! Like you said, kids!"

Sam rolls his eyes once again and leans closer. "How much?"

"Not much. Can barely get 'nything to come out of me."

"How long has this been going on for?"

Jeez. What is this? An interview? "Since yesterday."

"Okay," Sam says, standing up promptly. "Doctor it is."

* * *

Dean is diagnosed with a UTI just four hours later.

Sam has been laughing his ass off for the last two.

The older Winchester is sulking in the passenger seat of his baby, cringing in discomfort whenever Sam probably purposely hits every Goddamn pothole on the road. "Only girls get UTIs, dude. That makes you a girl!" Jesus Christ, it's like Sam has reverted back to being a twelve year old who finds penis and fart jokes hilarious. Dean lolls his head on to the window, relishing in the coolness of it and finding comfort in the antibiotics kicking in.

It's almost dinnertime, and Dean has been forced to kick out all unhealthy foods, which, in turn, eliminates everything in his diet. The doctor told him and Sam that he had to drink only water for the next week, which fucking sucks ass, and that he would have to eat a lot of leafy greens in order to help passing urine. Honestly, the drugs may be starting to work, but he still kind of feels like shit, and Sam rubbing it in isn't make matters any better.

They pull into yet another diner, and Dean somehow discovers the strength to get out. His head feels three sizes too big for his body, and he really just wants to sleep away the pain. Once again, his t-shirt sticks to him from the humidity as he follows Sam inside. The younger Winchester orders him a chicken salad, and he grimaces, feeling the sudden urge to piss out blood again. His streams are bound to be irregular until his diet changes.

"How're you feeling?"

"Oh, so now you care?" he spits, twisting his fork around on his napkin.

Sam folds his hands on the table. "Well, obviously, since I was the one to take you to the doctor in the first place."

"Whatever, Sam."

His eyebrows furrow. "Dude, this just temporary. Kinda like the flu... or an asthma attack."

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. "Would rather it be either of those..."

Their shared salads come out frighteningly fast, and Dean can't help but feel that lump in his throat from earlier return. What the hell is this shit? Italian dressing? Why can't he just have pepperoni pizza or a bacon double cheeseburger? Oh God... He would kill for some cheese fries right now. He picks at his salad and eyes it skeptically as if it threatens to eat him instead of the other way around. Sam must have noticed his hesitation.

"Quit being such a baby."

Dean huffs and glares at him wordlessly.

Sam smiles. "Don't worry, dude. Girly infection or not, I still have your back."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, SiriusHocrux1080. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	96. PurgatoryBenny

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the awesomely fantastic television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all for favoriting, following, requesting, reviewing, and reading! =)

I'm sorry about the semi-shortness of this one. I think it's because I have one that I wrote that's pretty close to this.

PurgatoryBenny requested: "Could you write one in Purgatory? Dean gets injured or has a panic attack. Maybe adding in his need for an inhaler. And Cas and Benny have to help him. Maybe you could even have something where Dean has a fever and starts to dream about Sam." Like I said, I already wrote one similar to this (can't remember the exact chapter), so I am going to try to go a slightly different route and try to make it new and unfamiliar to you lovely readers.

* * *

PurgatoryBenny

* * *

_Unknown_

Purgatory is skin and bones and heat and destruction and death. Purgatory is a place where Dean Winchester can't sleep and has nothing to eat but leaves and bark because the meat is tainted and soiled and rotten and monstrous. Purgatory is the complete and utter lack of appreciation for daylight because even ones worst fears lurk when the "sun" is out. Purgatory is a terrible in between where there is no Sam and Dean, only Dean without his brother.

He has Benny and Cas, but neither of them are a replacement for his younger brother. The brat is probably tearing up the earth on a mad search for him, and that one ounce of faith is all he's going on. He's being eaten alive by the suffering and exhaustion and starvation. The jacket he's wearing sags off of him, and he's poked five holes in his belt to accommodate the severe weight loss. Dean is done with here and desperately seeks the human portal day in and day out.

Like he said, he doesn't really get a chance to rest. Being the only human in a playground full of Heaven and Hell's finest monsters doesn't let him. Sure, Cas is the only angel, but these things want nothing more than human flesh to munch on and get stuck in their teeth. And Dean can't do this anymore. He used to think that Dad pushed him past his breaking point, but he's never went this long with this little of sleeping or eating or breathing or honestly thinking.

He has absolutely no concept or clue of what day it is. Back on Earth, he guesses it would be somewhere around November, but he really can't be certain. His watch is stuck on some form of the number eighteen in the corner, signaling it was the eighteenth of whatever month on the day he got sucked down here from standing too close to exploding Dick. Time is irrelevant here; the only thing that _is _relevant is survival, which is close to impossible.

And he's got a fucked up wrist on top of his still tragically bruised knee to prove it. Benny saved him from another group of crazy vamps, but not in time for him to avoid bracing himself the wrong way after being tossed fifty-plus feet in the air. He's pretty sure it's broken, but, thankfully or unthankfully, it's his left, so he's a bit less worried about the situation. He has it wrapped in a piece of Cas's trench coat, but it's swollen beyond belief.

They're in this cave thing waiting for the crowds and hoards of different monsters to disappear, but it doesn't seem as though that will be happening any time soon, so they're trying to make themselves comfortable. Cas is basically human down here and used the last bit of his juice however long ago to alleviate Dean's asthma attacks, but they've since returned, rendering the angel "useless." But, to Dean, he is much more than that.

Currently, he's the only one keeping him from going insane. Yes, he's been pushed a little over the edge and is probably a bit cuckoo from the stress, but Cas is familiar. At this point, Cas is home. And he knows Benny has his back just as much as Dean has his, and it feels nice to be watched over and know that he's at least somewhat safe surrounded by friends. Well, as somewhat safe as one can feel when they're being pillaged and terrorized by other monsters.

The dark blond shifts, but he stops once a jagged crag in the rock wall digs too far into his boney back. His chest is uncomfortably tight, and he's wheezing every few seconds. He was literally panicking so much within the first few days or weeks (he has no idea about how much or little time had passed) that it was triggering his asthma into overdrive, so he used his inhaler's medicine up quickly. Since then, Cas and Benny have been his lifelines.

"You need to calm down," Cas whispers, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

Only Dean's skin feels foreign to his own body, and he flinches at the touch. Usually, he and Cas get whatever sleep they can wrapped up in each others arms, and he no longer cares enough about "chick flick moments" to stop it from happening. He coughs into the crook of his elbow, sputters, and then sniffles. Oh shit. He pushes the negative thoughts away immediately and lets his head dip on to his best friend's shoulder instead, thinking about nothing else other than Sam.

* * *

"_Dean! I made you pancakes!"_

_The eleven year old boy shakes himself out of his slumber on their dusty couch in the living room. He stretches and yawns, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Crap. He wasn't supposed to fall asleep and leave Sammy unsupervised, but he's just so tired. Dad has extremely high standards for their apartments, and he'll be home within a day, so he had to make sure everything was spotless, which meant he had a lot of cleaning to get done._

_He hears the pitter patter of bare feet smacking the tile floor and watches his floppy haired kid brother approach him with the sloppily made breakfast on a Mickey Mouse plate Dad picked up at some old lady's garage sale before he left on his latest hunt. Sammy is drenched from head to toe in maple syrup; some of it is even smudged below one of his eyes. But Dean is truly starving, but he has no idea how Sammy managed to make these without his help._

"_I watched you do it, Dee!" he says proudly, holding out the plate for him._

_Dean takes it and nods. "You sure did, Sammy. These look great!"_

_And, when he takes a bite, they are cold and are soaked in too much syrup, but, to Dean, they are the best thing he's ever tasted._

* * *

He doesn't know how much more of this he can take before he gives up altogether. Sam. He needs Sam. His little brother is the only one who can make it better, but, at the same time, he's so fucking thankful that he isn't here to experience this with him. Even though he's most likely battling a hell of his own right now, there's no way whatever it is he's handling can suck worse than this. He's cut off from other humans and has nothing to eat. Wonderful.

But his stomach no longer growls, and he no longer feels hunger pains. He wishes he could say the same about his asthma, but that, ultimately, just gets worse each and every day. The attacks are stronger and last longer, especially since he's been without the aid of medicine for quite some time now. But Sam would know what to do and how to make it manageable without the inhaler because he's freakishly smart and has a shit ton of brains beneath all that hair.

Every time he is able to close his eyes, he either has a nightmare about Sam somehow being trapped here with him or relives a moment in time he shared with his brother. Sometimes, they're happy memories, much like the one he just dreamed about, but, more often than not, he's going through their worst hits. He guesses that could be looked at as a nightmare too, but those memories are _real._ He has something to hold on to. He has _someone_ to hold on to; someone he knows who will never stop searching and will never give up.

Sam will get him out of here.

* * *

_His hands are ice cold, and the rest of his body is nothing more than a bloody heap lying on the side of the road. Sam is twelve and slightly chubby, and Dean is sixteen with newly broken glasses crumpled at his feet. His face is scratched and torn, and his left eye is bleeding rapidly. Sam has been hit by a car and is dying, and Dean's heart has been ripped out of his chest and stomped on by God. He's nothing more than a shell of who he once was._

_And he can feel that terror seeping into his skin and soaking into his soul. His brother is dead. Sammy is dead. His Sammy, the one who he was supposed to protect, is no longer calling out his name because he can't breathe because his lungs won't work because his organs have shut down because he's _dead._ And Dean is shaking and sobbing and throwing himself on to the ground to hold his baby brother's hand one last time before they take him from him for forever._

_But, when Sam's eyes pop open, Dean can't mistake the completely yellow tint, even though he's legally blind in one eye without his glasses. And he can't help but feel the heat on his breath when Sam... or not Sam... speaks for the first time. This isn't his brother, and he knows it, but he can't help but stop dead in his tracks. He stops blinking and breathing and moving and visibly hangs on every word he says, even though it slices straight through him._

"_He isn't coming for you, Dean. It's just you and me."_

* * *

The older Winchester's eyes pop open in a freakish hurry, and he struggles to breathe. His lungs won't accept anymore air, and he's already turning blue. Cas and Benny are both grabbing at him and telling him to relax, but tears are streaming down his flushed cheeks. He feels everything. His shirt is clinging to him with sweat, tickling at his skin. His hair is matted to his forehead and strands of it bob up and down during his struggle.

And he feels the weight of Sam. Sam isn't here. Sam isn't coming. Dean is trapped, and not even his little brother can save him. He sobs and hiccups and tries his best to struggle out from beneath their touches, but nothing is working. He's trapped. He's trapped. He's trapped. And not even Cas and Benny can save him from this fucking asshole of a place. He presses his head into his hands and weeps openly, feeling the salty liquid pour between his fingertips.

"Dean," he hears Benny coax. "It's okay, kid. Try to breathe."

Instead of actually hearing Benny's voice, he recognizes Sam's. And he feels himself back in some shitty motel room in God only knows where. He feels Sam's hands on his shoulders and feels his inhaler being thrusted into his mouth in an unwelcomed manner. And then he feels the sweet relief of oxygen, but it's all fake. Sam isn't here. And there is no pending rescue. He's going to be here until he finds a way to bust out.

"Dean," Cas whispers. "Try to make your breathing match mine."

Sam. Sammy. He remembers the first time he met his little brother. The baby was sound asleep in Mom's arms, making tiny noises and squirming slightly. Typical Sammy. He always moved, even when he was an infant. And Dean somehow wiggled his index finger into Sam's hand and promised to be the best big brother in the universe. Up until now, he felt as though he was doing a decent job, but his Sammy is alone up there, and he doesn't know what to do.

But, eventually, just like everything else, it comes to an end. Tears are still dripping down his cheeks as he holds on tightly to his chest with both hands. Cas pushes him to where he's leaning his back on his chest, and he melts at the human contact. He hears soft talking and warm tones and feels the heat of breath on his neck. And, even if it's only for a minute, Dean feels as though he's wrapped up safe and sound in his baby brother's arms, ready to embrace tomorrow.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, PurgatoryBenny. Thanks for reading, requesting, and reviewing! =)


	97. daredevil

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for favoriting, following, reviewing, requesting, and reading! =)

I am still in the process of trying to decide on a date to post my new story, but the first chapter is almost complete! I am excited to let everyone read it, but, I will warn you, this is going to be another long haul for me. I intend on this story being pretty long, even if the chapters themselves are a bit shorter than the length of these. It's a story that's going to follow from Dean's birth on January 24, 1979, up until the current times in the show, so I will probably stop at the season ten finale. But the end is obvious not certain yet.

But I will also be attempting to post one-shots every now and then. I have a sick Sam story almost complete, so be on the lookout for that one! I was also thinking about writing a tag to 10x23 "Brother's Keeper," but I'm not positive on that yet. Posting depends on when I have wifi.

Holy cow! I only have FOUR MORE REQUESTS left to write! I feel so freaking happy and proud that I've made it to 97 chapters with 101 as the goal! This is easily the longest thing I've ever written (even including my own work that's not on FF), and it's wonderful to have so much continuous support. So, a MASSIVELY BIG THANK YOU to you guys for sticking with me for this long! I couldn't have done it without you! =)

daredevil requested: "Can you write one right after Sam turns Dean back into a human? I wish they had touched more on it in the show. Maybe he could get sick with the stomach flu? Or maybe just a cold and a fever? Something like that?" I so wish we could have seen some sick Dean this season! We got sick Sam during the trials; they more than owe us an episode with Dean being actually sick. Tisk tisk... Maybe we'll get one in season eleven post the Mark.

* * *

daredevil

* * *

_October 23, 2014_

It's been two days since Dean has been cured, and he has yet to take a break from researching the Mark of Cain. Obviously, the end goal is to remove the son of a bitch that turned his brother into something that he absolutely isn't, but getting to that point is the hard part. There's a ton of lore and myths and Bible studies; unfortunately for them, none of it is concrete at the moment. As long as the demon scenario doesn't come their way again, both of them should be fine.

So far, he has yet to Hulk or lash out and has been entirely calm. Sam guesses that, since he doesn't feel the murderous rage as badly anymore, he has learned a few lessons once waking up as a human again. It's nice to actually have his _brother_ back, even if he is barely speaking and refuses to eat or sleep. They are going to have to tackle one defect at a time, but it seems as though they've landed themselves in a spot where Dean is, once again, traumatized.

The younger Winchester yawns viciously and glances down at his wristwatch. It's not even seven in the evening, but he's nearly too tired to move. Dean is at the table a few feet apart from this one and is reading away, holding the book too close to his face with eyes half-mast as he attempts to make out the words on the page. "Got anything?" Sam asks in order to break the silence that has fallen around both of them, hoping to get at least a verbal response.

But all he receives is a shake of the head and a slight sigh as Dean slams the book closed and pillows his probably aching hand on his arms. From here, Sam can see that he's shivering and trembling, and his knee is bouncing up and down in almost a nervous manner. Like he said, Dean has barely left the table long enough to use the restroom. This morning, he found him in this same position, snoring wickedly and stubble turning into a full-blown beard.

Sam, despite the persistent throbbing in his shoulder, maneuvers himself to where he's sitting across from his brother. He clears his throat, which signals for Dean to lift his head up, and the brunette gulps at the state of his appearance. The older Winchester's eyes are glassy and bloodshot, and the deep purple bags beneath his eyes have grown considerably larger. There's a hue of red spread across his cheeks, and his freckles are standing out on his alarmingly pale face.

"You need to go to bed, Dean," he says quietly.

His brother doesn't bother with a reaction or emotion; he just shrugs.

"I mean it. You're running on fumes, man, and it's tearing you apart."

Dean blinks and then covers his mouth while he yawns, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. Sam rolls his eyes and creeks open a random book in order to make himself stop staring at his brother. He still isn't sure what kind of terms they're on after Sam told him that he wouldn't save him, even though that was nearly a year ago. The Gadreel situation (and Crowley) is what pushed his brother to adorn the Mark of Cain in the first place.

They haven't had many chances to talk about how they're honestly feeling once the Mark began to take its toll on Dean after he touched the First Blade in Magnus's fortress. Dean began sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness and all but shut down, kind of like he's doing right now. Sam wonders if they have too much baggage to ever be able to honestly act like brothers again, but, at the same time, he guesses that he's the one who burned that bridge in the first place.

It isn't easy being them; he knows that. Dean had to make a call last year and ultimately let an angel into Sam's body by tricking him to heal his post trials state. He was supposed to die, and he had made peace with that, but Dean had to ruin it by keeping him here. But, now, he can't imagine being stuck in the screwed up Vail or being sent to Hell and tortured by Crowley and his minions every second of every day. He would rather be _here._

He knows it's going to be practically impossible to convince Dean that he was right about saving him. What Sam said that night last February destroyed him, and he's never seen his brother so angst-filled and silent before. Dean tried for a while to make conversation and fix their relationship, but Sam wouldn't have any of it and just locked himself in his room, which is eventually exactly what his older brother did in return.

Sam should have been there. This mess is on his shoulders, and he has to try to make it right. It's going to hurt a lot and be hard as hell to get his brother to reopen up to him, but he's going to make it happen. They're brothers. If Dean is willing to do anything and everything from him, then Sam should be the same way. He's honestly, believe it or not, happy and thrilled to have his brother back at the bunker with him as a human as opposed to running around as a demon.

"Dean?" he whispers, noticing that his brother has gone back to studying the Bible.

The older Winchester looks up at him with exhausted eyes.

"I... uh, never mind." He isn't sure how to say it yet.

And, for a minute there, he swears he sees his brother break all over again.

* * *

_October 24, 2014_

Sam drifted off in his bed sometime after nine at night. The painkillers he's on for his shoulder make it incredibly hard for him to remain conscious against his will, and his arm was pulsing so much that he desperately needed sleep. He pushes himself off his mattress with one arm, using the same hand to run his fingers through his messy hair. Sam rotates his one working shoulder and attempts to stretch out like a cat, but, as always, it never works without pain.

He pads down the hallway in his socks toward Dean's room. If he believed in crossing his fingers or knocking on wood for good luck, he so would have. His brother is in great need of actual sleep, and he may just have to drug one of his numerous cups of coffee and Jack with pills to help him rest sooner rather than later. He raps his knuckles on the frame and doesn't hear any movement, so he cracks open the door. His bed is still neatly made to John Winchester's high standards.

Son of a bitch. Dean looked so freaking sick last night that it nearly made him throw up. That's it. Sam begins to stomp down the hallway with some gusto in his step; he has to fix this. Even if he can't actually verbalize how sorry he, maybe, just maybe, he can convince Dean that they will be okay through actions. It's been a long time now since Sam has even looked twice to see if his brother is honestly okay, and that is going to change starting today.

He approaches the main living area of the bunker to find his brother, yet again, with his head pillowed on his arms. His mouth is wide open, and he's snoring through what seems to be a bit of congestions. Sam rubs his own shoulder to alleviate the newfound agony seeping into his bones before he shakes his Dean's. The older Winchester shoots into a sitting position immediately and clutches the gun in the back of his saggy jeans pocket.

"Whoa! Hey, it's just me," he says, patting him before he moves in front of him. Dean has the imprint of his thermal shirt on his right cheek, and his eyes are incredibly red and swollen. He sniffles and coughs into the crook of his elbow before holding up his head with his left arm. He instantly dives back into researching and scattering through papers, yawning the entire time. Sam huffs, rolls his eyes, and closes the book he just opened. "You need to go to bed."

But Dean doesn't glare or snarl or even act like it bothers him.

"Dean," he says quietly. "Will you please take some medicine and lay down for me?"

It's the same way he always got him to do things growing up. If he says "for me," Dean is more inclined to help his precious baby brother out rather than himself, and it still bothers Sam to think of it that way, but he has no other choice. Sure, it seems like it's only a cold right now, but it could easily push into the flu if he's not careful. Thankfully, Dean hasn't been outside in the frigid late October weather in a couple of days, so he can scratch pneumonia off the list.

He pushes his glasses back up on his nose and gets up from the table. Sam can actually see that his arms are trembling as he stands, and he follows a shaky Dean into the kitchen. His brother heads to the coffee machine, but Sam stops him with his good hand. "I don't care if you're not going to listen to me about sleeping, but you're not going to drink anymore coffee. It's just water from now on if you're going to stay awake like this."

"Not m' boss," he says in a scratchy, weak voice.

Holy shit. This is literally the first time since he left the room in the bunker human that he's spoken. Sam has had many one-sided conversations with his silent brother, and he hasn't expected to get anything in return for a while. But hearing Dean talk means that he's annoying him, and, if he is annoying him, then they are making some progress. He can't help but smile just a little bit, which gets a weird look from Dean. "I'm not trying to be, but you need sleep."

Dean shakes his head and sits at their kitchen table, scrubbing a hand down his stubbly face. He coughs wetly into the open air, and Sam winces when he hears the wheezing in his breaths. "Can't," is all that he manages to say before a coughing fit takes over. Sam's heart begins to thumb uncontrollably as he fumbles for the spare inhaler he's kept in his sweats just in case Dean needed it with his uninjured hand.

"Breathe in," he commands softly.

And, eventually, his brother calms down, and his breathing returns to normal. Sam hands him a tissue to blow his stuffy nose in, which he gratefully accepts. "Don't wanna g' to sl'p..." he mumbles, using his grey thermal sleeve to wipe the away the remainder of the mess. The younger Winchester's eyes widen when Dean suddenly admits what could have helped them long ago. So it's not that he can't sleep, it's that he doesn't want to.

The only "rest," if he could even call it that, he's seen his brother get is by sleeping face down on the table in their library. He has yet to touch his bed in two and a half days, and he acts like pajamas, pillows, and blankets are a curse. "Can I do anything to help?" God only knows what kind of shit he's going to get for asking that question; Dean is probably going to call him a fucking girl. But he doesn't care. He really, truly doesn't.

Dean has this problem with opening up. While Sam can _typically_ formulate words to express his emotions, whether it is angry or depressed or ecstatic, Dean can't. He wasn't programmed that way by Dad, and Sam's sure the only reason he knows differently is because Dean would let him talk his ear off when they were kids and teenagers. Now, Sam usually knows when to shut the hell up and drop something, but his older brother doesn't bother with emotions.

He shakes his head. "Not that kinda problem..."

At least that's a start.

"Well, what kind of problem is it? Scared of the dark?" he snarks, trying to test the waters.

There's another shake of the head and a harsh sneeze, but no words.

And, then, suddenly it dawns on Sam that he might actually be _scared of the dark._ Dean was a fucking demon, afterall. God only knows the kind of shit he did and who he hurt, much like the state Sam was in once he got his soul back years ago. His big brother still has the Mark of Cain, and they're no closer to cracking the code than they were yesterday. Maybe he's refusing to sleep because he wants it off or because he feels guilty or because he doesn't want to wake up with black eyes. Whatever the reason, Sam is bound and determined to fix it.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam says, getting up and extending his good hand.

"Not friggin' four..." he murmurs before following his little brother down the hall. "Just said I didn't wanna sleep."

They're in the middle of Dean's bedroom. Sam begins pulling out a pair of sweatpants and the old charcoal hoodie he has stashed in his closet from nearly a decade ago. He removes Dean's glasses himself and motions for him to change. "You're getting some rest," is all he says. The older Winchester is hesitant at first, but then he, for some reason, complies without a fight. Beneath the thermal and jeans, his older brother is scrawny and has lost some muscle mass.

He finishes pulling an undershirt on before zipping up the hoodie all the way, nestling his hands in the pockets. Sam pats the bed, and his brother sits down with a great look of apprehension on his face, seeming to be more awkward in a place that's supposed to provide him comfort than in a stranger's home. The younger Winchester gets NyQuil from his bathroom medicine cabinet, hands it to Dean, and watches him struggle to swallow it.

"Ready?" he asks. "Lay back first."

Dean's face is blank, other than the twinkle of worry and mystery in his glassy eyes. He pushes himself on to his pillows and instantly curls into a ball on his right side. For a moment, Sam swears he sees tears beginning to swell up, but they quickly disappear once he turns the lights out. The younger of the two, despite his shoulder's pain, covers both of them up and lies down next to his brother, not making any physical contact at the moment.

But it doesn't take long for Dean to find his way to his chest.

"G'night, S'mmy," he mumbles.

Sam grins. "Goodnight, buddy. I'll be right here."

And, finally, for the first time in two and a half days, Dean Winchester sleeps.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed this, daredevil. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	98. KrolenaT

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Here are the last four installments!

Thank you so very much for reading, reviewing, requesting, favoriting, and following! =)

KrolenaT requested: "Dean has to go undercover at a firehouse or police station for a hunt. And a real case comes up for Dean's squad (fire, etc.) and, being the hero he is, he gets hurt trying to save some civilians." I'm not going to lie; this one was tough to write. But it is so true to Dean's character, and I believe, if this kind of situation presented itself on the show, it would be Dean to go undercover in this manner. I still really like this prompt, though.

I am going to set this one before season seven starts. Completely and entirely AU.

* * *

KrolenaT

* * *

_August 13, 2011_

"You look ridiculous," Sam states, glancing over Dean's latest undercover costume. In the twenty-eight years that they've been hunting, neither one of them have ever really went incognito as someone other than the police, FBI, or health inspectors; those are their typical cover ups. But, now that a case has manifested within a local Indiana fire station, they have no choice other than to send in Dean to search the area for signs of ghost possession.

Sam was supposed to tag-team this one with him, as usual, but a concussion from fighting off a vampire's nest a few days ago left him queasy and unable to answer basic questions in the beginning. Now, he just has a killer headache and can barely lift himself out of bed to use the restroom, which has made him heavily reliant on his big brother to take care of him and their newest case. He feels terrible for not being able to back him up.

Cas is long gone with his whole "trying to rule the universe" crap, and Sam knows how badly that bothers him. The angel is right about one thing; he and Dean do share a more profound bond. When Sam was guzzling demon blood and didn't really give a rat's ass about his brother, Cas was there to pick up the pieces and help Dean feel worth something again. And now he's just letting him down again. He wants to do this hunt with his brother...

But Dean won't let him. Says the knock to the head was too severe to risk it. Dean still has cuts and scratches and bruises and a grand total of thirty-two stitches all over his pale body from the vamps, but he's still going to do this, which Sam doesn't agree with. He has to shrug it off and take it with a grain of salt though, since his brother is calling the shots on this one since he is incapacitated. Sam just wants Dean to be and play it safe at the firehouse.

"Yeah yeah," Dean says. "Yuck it up."

Due to the older Winchester's typical throw over shirt on top of a solid colored t-shirt and blue jeans, he does look ridiculous. Even though he's used to seeing him dressed in full suits, Sam thinks witnessing his brother in a collared grey shirt tucked into khakis with actual Nike tennis shoes on is weird. Yes, he's used to going in professional attire, but this almost makes Dean look _normal._.. like he's living an apple pie life in suburbia with a wife and two kids.

Sam is lying in bed on his side, glancing in his brother's direction. There's a throbbing, pulsating sensation behind his eyes and at the base of his neck, and, for a moment, he thinks hard about how he doesn't want Dean to leave. He gets in this state of mind when he doesn't feel well; he's clingy and wants his older brother to hold on to. But he has been taking care of him for the past three days, and they've put off this fire station case for long enough.

"You gonna be okay while I'm gone?" Dean asks, grabbing his car keys and placing his wallet in his back pocket.

The younger Winchester nods. "Yeah. Um... uh, be careful."

"Careful's my middle name, Sammy."

Sam adds, "And don't cry when they kick your ass."

"Dude, how hard could it be?"

* * *

When Dean returns back to the motel room, he's limping, and there's blood dripping down his back. The crisp, cold air that Sam enjoys relaxing in smacks him in the face, and he could freaking collapse because of how wonderful it feels. The men and few women at the station kicked his sorry ass to pieces, and what they do oddly resembles some of the treatment and conditioning Dad used to instill on both of them as young kids.

Sam is sprawled out on their shared bed, staring as some kind of 1990s comedy on the TV. He's wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, and Dean immediately lays down next to him, rotating his aching shoulders and huffing into a flat pillow. "What happened to you?" Sam asks, worry coating each of the four words. "Shit. You're bleeding," he states. But Dean doesn't want his brother to be overly concerned, so he removes his face from the pillow.

"'m okay, Sammy. Just tired."

"That and you're stitches on your back frickin' popped open, man!"

Dean shrugs. "Details," he mumbles.

"I told you so," is all he says before he stands up to go retrieve the first aid kit. The older Winchester rolls his eyes and places his hands behind his head. Hell, his whole body feels like it's been lit on fire with a blowtorch, and he's so ready to fall asleep. Tomorrow is going to be torture with his newbie training shit and trying to make a good name for himself at the firehouse. Those dudes are pretty much giant, walking dicks with massive egos.

"Move on to your stomach again," Sam commands. And then Dean feels the stinging of antibiotic cream and the pull and tug of new stitches being applied. His little brother's hands have perfected the art of wonderful stitches, even if, more often than not, the older Winchester ends up blowing them out at least once or twice. Dean's body crumbles into an exhausted hump, and he doesn't even bother to change out of his uniform before sighing contently into the bed.

He hears Sam chuckle quietly before he turns off the light. He may hurt like a son of a bitch, but that won't stop him from getting a good ass night of sleep.

* * *

_August 14, 2011_

By the time the next morning comes around, Sam is feeling much better concussion wise and is raring to go just as his brother's alarm is about to go off for yet another day at the firehouse. He wishes he could go with him now more than ever, but it's already a bit too late for him to sign up to be a new cadet. So, he sticks with trying to get Dean to cooperate and get his ass out of bed. But, from the looks of it, this goal he wants to accomplish isn't going to be easy.

Dean is in one of the deepest sleeps Sam has seen in years. His brother is typically okay on four or five hours every two nights, but he's been resting for a grand total of fourteen hours now. He's comfortably lying on his stomach, and there are bruises splayed all over his pale back. Dean is snoring away, even though, somewhere in his subconsciousness, he's sure he's in a deal of pain from his injuries. Sam found a sprained ankle last night on top of it all.

"Wakey wakey, Deano," he whispers, gently shaking his shoulder.

"N'hhhmmm..." he mutters incoherently, shifting and groaning on the bed.

The alarm clock rings in both of their ears, and Dean's eyes groggily open, revealing them to be bloodshot and red rimmed. He rolls over, massaging his temples and mumbling to himself. His older brother's face is littered in tiny bruises, and his left eye is slightly swollen. Jesus. Those guys must have really put him through the ringer. He hasn't seen Dean look this tired since they were around thirteen and seventeen when Dad was riding them constantly.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like shit." He coughs into the crook of his elbow. "Don't wanna, S'mmy..."

Sam smiles just a bit. "I know, dude. But we need this for the case."

"You do it..."

"Can't. Remember?"

Dean glares at him with glazed over eyes. "Shut your face."

"Whatever, man. Just get ready for work."

* * *

The apartment building is hot. Too hot. Dean feels like he's suffocating from behind his mask, which, incidentally, is the only thing shielding him from being burned alive besides his thick fireman uniform. He used to dream of this as a kid, but now he's regretting every thought of that. Mom died in a fire, and he wanted to help those who went through the same thing he did. He wanted to avenge her death by becoming someone who could save her.

But now all he sees is a bunch of flames and his mother pinned to the ceiling. And he can literally feel the immense amount of heat radiating at unreasonable temperatures sweltering around him and senses his father shoving his six month old baby brother into his arms. He gulps, and sweat streams into his eyes, soaking his contacts and making his vision turn into complete mush. Dean's heart is shaking, and he's trying so hard to keep his composure.

"Don't be afraid, Newbie," he hears over the earpiece. "Just watch the big boys."

But he doesn't need nor does he want to just watch the older guys. He's never been that kind of person, even as a kid. He wants to be a part of the action; always has been. Despite the worry coursing through his veins and the fact that his head is spinning rapidly, he pushes forward. He isn't a toddler and doesn't need to be babysat. So, he ignores the obvious hallucinations of his four year old life flashing before his eyes and continues on.

"This is what it's all about, kid," he hears.

"Yeah. Keep breathing, and don't pass out, otherwise Bart's gotta do CPR on your sorry ass."

Dean rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything.

Red-hot, angry flames are engulfing the building, and he can barely see anything other than black smoke. For only the second time in his life, this doesn't mean anything demonic. People are hurt and in danger, and he can hear those people calling out for help. Just as if he were hunting, his one and only goal is to make sure no one gets hurt or, worse, killed. He can't handle anymore blood on his hands, and he has to see that everyone gets out of here alive.

"Alright. That's it," he hears. "Sweep's done. We can't risk anymore."

"What?" Dean asks, glaring to the man next to him. "There's still people in there!"

The masked man shakes his head. "I know, but we've already lost Pat. We can't go any further."

"Screw that," he mumbles. But then he feels a tug on his thick and heavy uniform.

"Don't do this, Newbie."

But he goes off into the darkness anyway. Dean Winchester doesn't give up, and he's certainly not going to let a pansy fire kill anymore people when he's in the damn building. He's faced demons and monsters and true evil, and all of those things are way greater than some random fire. He has to get everyone out, and he's not going to stop until he's received what he wants. So, he keeps going because Dean Winchester just doesn't know when to quit.

"HELP! HELP ME!"

And then he bolts east, frantically searching for wherever that tiny, barely audible voice is coming from. He kicks over burning chairs and knocks away what's left of once solid walls to get to the person. And then he sees someone hiding in the remains of what looks like an old closet. Shit. It's just a kid. Without really thinking, he pulls of his oxygen mask and gives it to the ailing little girl, letting her soak in some much needed air.

The instant the smoke fills his lungs, he begins coughing. Yeah... Asthma and fires don't exactly match. The coughs are wet and deep, and he wants to pull out his inhaler, but he can't. The girl squirms, but then goes entirely limp in his arms. And he panics. He imagines Sammy in his arms on the night of the fire, and there is nothing more he needs to picture. He has to get this girl out of here as fast as possible, aching lungs and quivering legs or not.

Unfortunately for him, he doesn't make it that far.

* * *

_August 15, 2011_

Sam can't stop staring at his brother. His face is covered in tiny cuts and scratches, and his left cheek has been singed by falling debris. Damn him. Part of the younger Winchester just wants to scream at his unconscious brother for being so stupid and irresponsible with his own life, but then another part of him could never do such a thing. Dean is a fucking hero and saved the life of a six year old girl when no one else would. He could never be mad.

But his left foot is broken, as well as his left wrist. And he has a concussion that actually tops the one that Sam had. Go figure. Whenever Sam gets an injury, Dean somehow manages to come out victorious in the "Ha, I'm More Hurt Than You" game. His heart is still skipping a few beats every now and then from panicking himself so much, but he knows that everything is okay now. Dean's even woken up a few times since the accident, so that's good.

"Change the channel, bitch," he quips, motioning toward the TV with his right hand, which has the IV hooked into it. He grimaces at the tug and movement and goes back to scowling. He'll be in the hospital for a few more days as they try to wean him off oxygen from the dangerous smoke inhalation. It will be a while before his brother's already previously battered lungs will cooperate, but Sam is willing to do anything and everything to ensure that his brother can breathe.

Sam clicks the television over to TBS, where some other comedy is playing. Dean rolls his eyes, which are just now starting to seem heavy. He yawns and tries to curl into a ball on his side, but the broken bones make that a bit more difficult than he would like. Sam helps situate him, and, before he knows it, Dean is drifting off to sleep, despite his very recent channel complaint. The younger Winchester grins and takes his hand as he snore away.

The little girl, Mara, came by to thank him earlier, and he has never seen Dean glow like that before.

And he can only hope and pray that there are more good moments than bad in the future.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it, KrolenaT. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	99. Violently Red (I)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the amazingly wonderful television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters. Sadly, it all belongs to Eric Kripke.

* * *

Thank you all so much for favoriting, following, requesting, reviewing, and reading! You guys have no idea how much I truly do appreciate it! =)

Violently Red requested for me to write the recovery process for 4x16's "On the Head of a Pin." OTHOAP has been one of my favorite episodes since I've seen it, and there's so much good, old fashioned angst in there. Dean and Sam's relationship is insanely rocky, and it kind of reminds me of "The Purge" in certain aspects. I almost kind of wish "It's a Terrible Life" didn't air right after it so we could have seen some of Dean's actually recovery process.

Added in injuries for my own funsies! And I threw in some Sam craziness and moodiness.

* * *

Violently Red (I)

* * *

_March 21, 2009_

It's been two days since Dean's incident with Alistair, and he is just now being released from the hospital. It's been two days of damn near silence and misery and Sam trying to figure out just where in the hell he stands with his older brother. Dean has barely looked him in the eye and has pushed himself so far away that he isn't sure how he's supposed to handle the situation. Normally, Sam has the answers. But, today, he doesn't.

Dean doesn't even protest when the hospital policy forces him to use a wheelchair. His bruised and stitched facial features are hollow and sunken, and he's already lost close to ten pounds since he's been here. He's refused to eat and had the nurses fooled into thinking that he was taking bites when he was just pushing the food around on the plate. Sam isn't oblivious to his tricks because he's lived with Dean his entire life and knows every game in his playbook.

But, at the same time, clearly he doesn't know him as well as he thought he did. Hell, Dean didn't even budge or complain when a nurse helped him change into sweatpants and a thermal long sleeved shirt. Sam wheels him outside, and he realizes it's the first time he's seen the sun in two long days. He saw Ruby last night, but it was just them and the full moon above, so there's nothing spring like around them. Even their moods are gloomy.

The flowers are blooming, and the birds are chirping, but the cheery weather can't make either Winchester smile or even so much as breathe in the fresh air. Dean wordlessly crawls into the passenger seat and makes no quips about not being able to drive. Sam wordlessly climbs into the drivers seat and makes no attempts to look in his brother's eyes. He doesn't understand this anymore, but he is entirely certain of one thing: he needs demon blood.

* * *

Dean is huddled into a cheap motel bed with the remote and a long ice pack wrapped around his tender neck. Sam blinks and gulps, but his brother doesn't move from his position. He's staring at the 1970-something TV with bunny ears, but there is no life in his eyes. He's looking directly at it, but it's almost as if he isn't paying a lick of attention because his eyes aren't even moving. Sam just continues to type and research aimlessly on his computer.

He wants to be mad. Oh God, how he wants to be angry. But he can't be. Dean got the shit kicked out of him, and Uriel is dead, and he won't even talk anymore. And Sam can't help but feel that part of this is his fault. He knew Dean shouldn't have been the one to torture Alistair; he's too weak. He hasn't been himself since he got out of Hell, and there's no hiding that anymore. Dean is stupid and stubborn and trusted Castiel when he clearly shouldn't have.

Sam isn't mad at his brother, even though, like he said, every fiber of him wants to be. He should have protected him, resembling what he did in that warehouse, but he didn't. Dean hasn't been himself since September, and he isn't sure how much more uncertainty he can take. Sam isn't used to having to be the backbone of their hunting operation, but it feels nice to be in charge. But he can't take Dean being this weak and useless and Sam doing all the work.

"How're you?" he asks quietly. He figures he won't receive an answer, but he's wrong. This time, for some reason, Dean shrugs, which prompts him to dive in further. "Is your cheek bothering you? It's almost time for more meds," he offers. He doesn't want to hurt or upset him anymore, which, coincidentally, bothers him even more. He doesn't want to have to beat around the bush or act nice... But that may just be the demon blood talking for him again.

The younger Winchester wishes his mood wouldn't flip-flop as much as it does, but he feels like he's spiraling out of control and losing grip on who he is. Dean used to keep him in check, but none of what his brother says seems to matter to him anymore. To put it as precisely as possible, Sam doesn't really know how he truly feels, and that's a problem. He used to be able to tell Dean and Dad off and know the exact emotions he was feeling, but now he's all over the map.

He takes a seat on the opposite bed and stares at his brother, who is sporting a white cast on his right wrist, which is mostly covered up by his shirtsleeve. The concussion is probably the most brutal part of his injuries, and he was in a freaking coma earlier in the past two days because of it. Sam's not going to lie; he was worried and even scared to lose his brother in his dreams rather than keep him here in reality. Maybe that's would Dean would prefer.

"Do you need anything?" he tries, hoping to maybe at least get a similar response.

The older Winchester shakes his head.

Okay. This is good. At least they're sort of making progress.

* * *

_March 22, 2009_

The dawn of day three arrives, and Dean has somehow pushed himself out of bed. Sam is still lounging around in his boxers, but his brother has changed into jeans and a t-shirt. There are bruises covering his arms that are dark purple and blue. There are cuts on his throat from fingernails. There are indentations on his neck from fingers wrapping around him and choking the life out of his body. Sam hates to say it, but he looks terrible.

His eyes are too swollen for contacts, so he watches his brother opt for glasses instead. He doesn't say a word as he runs his hands through his hair and takes a seat at their makeshift kitchen table. He doesn't bother opening the laptop or cracking open a book; he just places his head on his arms and stares out the motel room window, which is letting a bit of sunshine soak through the curtains. Sam rolls his eyes and pads over to him after getting out of bed.

"Want your meds?" he asks.

Dean just shakes his head from his position.

"Do you want some breakfast?"

Another shake of the head.

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

It's slow and muffled and strangled, but Dean actually spoke. The only time he's heard him speak is to nurses and the doctor. Jesus. He sounds as terrible as he looks. Sam runs a hand through his own hair and sighs. "Dean," he says cautiously. "You need to talk to me about this." He doesn't know what his reaction is going to be given their currently rocky relationship, but he doesn't care. Sam doesn't deserve or want to be in the dark any longer.

"Please leave me alone."

And it's as simple as that. Once again, Dean is calling the shots and telling him exactly what to do, and that isn't okay with him. Sam is so fucking sick of taking orders that he could scream at the top of his lungs right into his brother's face. Dean has been bossing him around since before he could even talk or formulate an opinion for himself. "No. Stop telling me what to do." And it comes out a lot ruder and harsher than he originally expected.

Dean lifts his head from his arms and shrugs once again before grabbing his car keys with his uninjured hand and bolting out the door.

* * *

It's nearly nine at night when Dean returns with a brown paper bag of food clutched in his grip. He sets it down rather gently in front of Sam and strips himself from his jacket. He immediately collapses on to the bed and starts untying his boots as if he hadn't walked away hours upon hours ago. "Where were you?" he asks kind of angrily. He envisioned many conversations with his brother about this situation while he was gone, but this wasn't one of them.

"Out," is all he says. He leans back against the pillows and doesn't even change the channel.

Sam slams the laptop closed forcefully. "This has to stop."

"What?"

"You acting like this. You can't keep sulking and feeling sorry for yourself!"

"Whatever," he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sam stands up and stomps over to the other bed to set across from his brother. "You need to tell me what I'm doing that's so wrong."

Dean doesn't even look in his direction. Great. He's shutting down already. Sam can't do this anymore. He wants to shake his brother and tell him to fucking grow a pair instead cowering away and hiding. He needs to face whatever it is that is going on in that messed up mind of his and approach it like a man. Sam has been working on meeting his goals and following through, even when he is apprehensive, and Dean should do the same.

"Just leave me alone, Sam."

"No. I'm done taking your orders. I'm not five anymore, Dean."

"Never said you were."

"Well, then stop treating me like I am."

"Okay."

Jesus Christ. It's like pulling teeth. "Will you please just tell me what's going on?"

"Nope."

He literally has to tell himself to stay calm and not punch his brother in the fucking nose. He can't take this behavior from Dean anymore. This, whoever this is, isn't his older brother anymore. Sam is just going to have to accept that fact that he and Ruby are going to be the ones to stop the Apocalypse, and he's going to have to leave Dean in the dust if he doesn't want to hop on board. And he figures his encounter with Alistair may have been the last straw.

"Fine. Have it your way," he says before grabbing his own jacket and violently shutting the door.

* * *

_March 23, 2009_

Dean is fast asleep on his stomach by the time Sam comes back.

There are dried tear tracks staining his flushed cheeks.

A crumpled photograph of Dean and baby Sammy is clutching in his hand.

Sam's heart drops into the pit of his stomach.

What has he done?

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Violently Red. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	100. Juvdelink25 (II)

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you for reading, reviewing, requesting, following, and favoriting! =)

Juvdelink25 requested: "I don't know about you, but sometimes I miss Ellen and Jo, not always but sometimes. I was thinking maybe you could do a story about the first time Ellen or Jo was around when Dean had an asthma attack. Maybe he tries to hide it from them, but then he just can't anymore." Ellen, Jo, and Sammy to the rescue! This is so true of Dean's character, and of course he would try to hide his weakness around other people.

This is set in an AU form of the end of season two.

* * *

Juvdelink25 (II)

* * *

_June 30, 2007_

Dean's chest is almost unbearably tight as he barrels down the road in his beloved Impala. Sam is asleep in the passenger seat, cheek smushed against the cold glass. He's snoring, and there are drops of sweat beading down the side of his face. Dean cranks the AC a bit more, coughing as quietly as possible. He fucking hates summer with a passion; it always makes his asthma a thousand times worse. He wishes the seasons would just change already.

But, unfortunately for him, he's nearly three months away from autumn's sweet relief. Don't get him wrong; having chronic asthma haunts each of the twelve months of the year, but it's much worse during the summer and winter. He wants to curl up in some cushy motel room and sleep it off, but they're heading to Harvelle's Roadhouse on a search for some answers from Ash about their latest hunt. He just hopes that Ellen may let them crash there.

They've been going nonstop for the past few weeks, and it's finally starting to catch up with both of them. He feels bad because Sam has been catching colds and flus left and right due to the stress, and he's severely worn out, but they have a job to do. Dean is more used to hunting at this pace because this mimics how he used to work when he and his father went their separate ways. He knows they need to slow down soon for the sake of both of them.

He's more worried about Sam, though. The kid's been through a lot in the past two and a half years since he came to pick him up from Stanford. He lost Jess, they both lost Dad, he discovered he had these weird powers, and he's the "chosen one" to lead a demonic army to overthrow the earth. Whatever. Dean keeps telling Sammy that he should screw destiny right in the face, but he doesn't listen to that. And the older Winchester guesses he understands.

Dean coughs a few more times. Even though he's trying to keep it quiet, Sam's eyes pop open, and he groggily begins to look around. "Go back to sleep, Sammy," he whispers, rubbing his brother's shoulder gently. "I'll wake you when we get there." But the floppy haired brunette just keeps staring at him as if he wants to say something. Jeez. The kid's eyes are still slightly glazed over from his newest cold, and he's missing a bit of color from his cheeks.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks quietly.

Dean nods. "Yeah, dude. Quit worrying about me."

"But you're coughing... If you have what I have, we should rest for the night."

Dean returns his eyes back to the road. "My chest is just tight, Sam. You know how it gets in the summer." And what a hellish summer night it is. It's muggy, humid, and there is condensation pouring off of the car and on to the overheated concrete below his baby's tires. Digging up graves to salt and burn bodies is nearly impossible with the weather, but they've been forced to push through it a few times since summer officially started a few days ago.

Sam has skeptical look plastered all over his face, but he doesn't say anything else, which Dean is grateful for. They have about two more hours until the reach the Roadhouse. His chest is sore, and he's beginning to have trouble focusing on the road. He wants to find a motel and pull over, but he won't. And he can't help but smile when he sees Sam return to his sleeping position against the window, lips parted and already snoring before another mile passes by.

* * *

They arrive at Harvelle's Roadhouse with about fifteen minutes to spare from their two hour mark. Sure, Dean sped the entire way here, but he really cranked up the pace during the last ninety minutes. He's so ready to ask Ellen if they can crash here for the remainder of the night and pick the case up in the morning, but Sam is next to him and already gathering up files and books to pass on to Ash, who's sleeping schedule is probably more fucked up than theirs.

And his chest is aching, and he's had to use his inhaler way more often than he should have to. These are typically the signs of an upcoming attack, and he wishes it would just happen already so it could be over. He hates getting symptoms and then having to wait for them to kick in full force. He massages his chest with his fingertips, and it's almost as if knots have taken residence beneath his skin; he tries to knead them out carefully and slowly.

Inside, there are a few random strangers riding out the miserable night and having a couple of beers. They stare straight at both of them as they walk through the double doors, but neither of them really pays attention. Instead, they take a seat at the counter, and Sam puts his backpack on top of the wood, sniffling and coughing almost silently. He doesn't see Ellen, Jo, or Ash, so he figures they might be in the back. "How're you feeling, Sammy?"

"'s Sam," he says with little to no infliction. "I'm okay. Tired."

"You want some medicine?" Dean asks. He has NyQuil capsules in his jeans pocket, along with ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Advil, which are three medications that work to bring his brother's fevers down. Sam nods, but doesn't make an effort to speak, so Dean fishes out the pills and pops them out of their package into his little brother's moderately shaky hand. That's it. They're going to have to pull the plug on this operation for the night; the kid needs to sleep.

Sam is swallowing the pills when Ellen comes out and sees both of them. "Boys!" she greets, coming around the end of the counter and hugging them both. "Dear, you feel awfully warm," she tells Sam, who has since melted to where he's leaning heavily against Dean, even though they're on different barstools. The older Winchester pats the younger's knee comfortingly, and Sam glances over at Dean and reveals just how miserable he is.

"Listen, Ellen," Dean starts. "We actually came here to get some help with a case, but we're wiped out, and Sam is still trying to get over a cold. Any chance we could get a room? Please?" he adds at the end. He's met Ellen a few times before, and she's one of Dad's old friends, and he knows that she's a stickler for manners and respect. He doesn't really say "please" or "thank you" to his brother, but he tries to whenever he can toward other people.

Ellen nods. "No trouble at all, boys. We have a room spare room available."

"That'll be great. Thanks," he says, smiling at the offer. "I'm gonna go get the bags. You should take a shower, Sammy. I'll bring some clothes for you." He watches his baby brother nod and miserably follow Ellen to the back room of the Roadhouse. By the time he reaches the outdoors, he's coughing and sputtering and gripping on to his chest like there's no tomorrow. And there fucking might not be if he can't keep his breathing under control.

He doesn't want Ellen, Jo, or Ash to see him in this state. It's bad enough that Sam knows, and Dad knew just how bad it could get. He's had asthma since he was three years old, and it isn't his fault, but he knows how badly it can get in the way. Dean's been hooked up to oxygen masks and had to endure breathing treatments more times than he can count. He hates the weakness that accompanies being sick, and he doesn't like it when people flip out over him.

The older Winchester grabs their duffel bags and Sam's laptop case and heads back inside after taking two more puffs of his inhaler. There is sweat dripping off of him and on to his plain navy blue t-shirt, soaking into it and leaving mess on his back and neck. He's going toward the back when he runs into Jo, who is tending bar at the counter to three other dudes. "Hey," she greets. "Didn't know you were in town. Where's Sam?"

He points down the hall and prays that his voice doesn't give out mid-sentence. "In the spare room. We're staying here for the night," he says.

"What for?"

Dean shrugs, despite knowing the answer. "Need a little help on a case. No big deal. But Sam's not feelin' so hot, so we decided to crash here."

Jo nods and then one of the guys at the counter calls her name. "I'll see you in the morning then," she informs him with a bright smile.

He can barely muster up the strength to grin back. "Yeah. You too."

The spare bedroom is just steps away from the actual bar, and he figures they'll be hearing all sorts of things for the rest of the night and creeping into the morning hours. He hears the shower water running from inside the room, and he shuts the door. Ellen placed clean sheets on the spare bed that they'll be sharing, so he makes the bed up as quickly as possible, ignoring the John Winchester way and going for his own way where Sam will be lying on it in five minutes.

Dean doesn't want to shower because it'll use up the last of his energy, but he knows he should. He's been sweating in a car for sixteen hours, and part of him thinks he might smell gross. He gets out a clean pair of boxers and the thinnest, lightest white t-shirt he can find. The older Winchester removes his contacts, uses his inhaler twice more, and sits down on the bed and waits for his little brother to come out of the bathroom.

Sam emerges in sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt, hair soaked and visibly trembling with violent shivers. He drops his clothes in a heap on the ground and doesn't bother to place them somewhere else before he collapses on to the bed, burying his face in the fluffy pillow only to immediately remove it because of his congestion. He rolls into a ball on his side and faces Dean. His eyes are still red, but some of the color has returned in his cheeks.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," he says quietly. "I'm gonna shower, and then I'll be right here."

His little brother has been known to be extremely clingy when he has a fever. He can normally manage himself properly when it's just a runny nose and a cough, which sometimes does happen without a fever to accompany it, but all it takes is a simple 99 temperature to start the downward slope. Dean pulls the covers over his brother and knows that he'll still be awake and searching for him until he gets back in the bed, which is another reason why he doesn't want to shower.

But, when he steps into the lukewarm water, he will admit that it feels marvelous. He would take an ice cold shoulder to remove the day's stickiness, but cold showers always make his muscles tense up, and he doesn't want to be sore tomorrow. A hot shower would cause his chest to become stuffy and even more irritated than it already is, so right in the middle works wonders. By the time he gets out, his chest isn't as sore, and he feels like his airway has opened up some.

He quickly changes, towel dries his hair, brushes his teeth, and then tosses himself back into bed. Sam instantly scoots to where his head in buried into his chest, which only makes matters a bit worse. His younger brother is too out of it and exhausted to realize that the intense wheezing has started, but he doesn't dare move an inch. If Sam is comfortable and can actually get some sleep, then he'll stay in the same position all night if he has to.

* * *

_July 1, 2007_

Dean coughs himself awake a little after eleven in the morning. He yawns and stretches out like a cat, groaning and wheezing at the exact same time. He expects to run into Sam's arm or hair or at least something whilst doing this, but he doesn't feel anything. His vision is blurry and foggy as he searches around the bedroom, but he doesn't see a sign of his brother anywhere in here. Huh. Weird. He sits up, uses his inhaler twice, and gets out of bed.

The older Winchester throws on a loose pair of jeans, a random grey t-shirt, socks, and his boots before running a hand through his hair. He goes into the bathroom to put his contacts back in, brush his teeth, put on deodorant and a spray or two of cologne, and heads out into the bar area of Harvelle's Roadhouse. There he sees Sam sitting on the barstool, thumbing through the papers from their case. He's up and dressed and doesn't seem to be as sick.

"Hey," he greets, sitting down next to him. "How're you feelin' today, squirt?"

Sam shrugs. "I'm alright. Still tired, but I'm not running a fever anymore."

Dean nods. "That's good. Wanna take some meds just in case?"

"One step ahead of you," he says. "Hey, are you alright? You were coughing a lot in your sleep."

Shit. Normally, he would admit that his chest feels like jelly and that he's uncomfortable to Sam when it comes to his asthma and Sam _actually_ admitting that he heard it, but he's not going to today. Ellen and Jo are making breakfast on the stove for them, and they're within earshot, so he just nods. "I'm fine. Must've had something in my throat is all." One look at Sam's face leads him to believe that he knows the excuse is bullshit, but oh well.

Ellen and Jo look to him as a tough guy. Hell, he was raised by John Winchester; there ain't nobody tougher. But they don't need to know he's had asthma since he was a toddler, and they don't need to know that he's been hospitalized probably at least a hundred times in his life for it. Monsters and ghosts and demons and the things that go bump in the night most likely know his weakness because sometimes it's too hard to hide, but he can protect it from them.

But, unfortunately for him, his lungs start to flare up the instant a plate of eggs, toast, bacon, and sausage is placed in front of him. He coughs as quietly as possible, even though he knows that Sam can hear it, and tries to rub the pain in the chest away. Shit. Come on. Don't do this here. Not in front of them. He begins to wheeze, and, without warning, the coughing grows louder, despite he attempts to quiet and calm them down. Double shit.

And then he feels three pair of hands on his back as he drops on to his knees from the stool, barking and begging for air. Tears spill over his reddened cheeks, and he tries to get a stream of air flowing through his lungs with no luck. He coughs so hard that specks of vomit escape and coat the floor, but then he feels his inhaler being thrust into his mouth and tastes the tangy relief of oxygen. There are several more huffs of it before his eyes are willing to open.

He is wrapped up in Ellen's arms, and she is almost rocking him back and forth, carding her fingers through his sweaty hair and kissing him on top of his head several times. Jo is rubbing her hands on his knee and sitting next to him on the floor comfortingly, her head dipped on his shoulder, showing affection and relief in the only way she can. And Sam is the one with the panicked expression written all over his face with the inhaler clutched in his hand.

Dean doesn't say anything, and neither does anyone else. There are still tears running down his face. He's asleep in Ellen's arms before he knows it.

* * *

The older Winchester wakes up in the spare bedroom once again. There's a humidifier on the nightstand and a squishy ice pace on his forehead. Shit. Did he really have an asthma attack in front of them? Dammit. He... They... Ellen and Jo shouldn't know about this. Now he's so freaking embarrassed, but Sam is out there in the bar with them, so he wants to at least show his face, even though he's sure that they've all been checking on him.

Dean stands up on shaky legs and opens the door to pad down the short hallway. This time, the bar is completely empty except for them, and he is thankful for that. He finds Sam asleep at the counter with his head pillowed in his arms, a class of water and papers and files scattered all around him. He retakes the same seat as earlier, but, this time, his chest is much better. He's sore and achy, but he will be okay once tomorrow rolls around.

"How are you, sweetie?" Ellen asks, throwing a towel over his shoulder and staring him straight in the eye.

He nods and gulps. "Better." His voice reminds him of sandpaper.

"Don't you ever scare us like that again," Jo says from behind her.

Dean nods. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope this was okay, Juvdelink25. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and requesting! =)


	101. Violently Red (II)

**Author's Note:** Unfortunately, I do not own the brilliantly amazing television show _Supernatural _or any of its marvelous characters.

* * *

Well, this is it! 100 wonderful requests! What a ride it has been! I carried on with a daily update for ninety-something days, and I am so incredibly proud of that! But the real people I have to thank are all of you guys! You have supported this story until the very end, and it truly has been a long haul. Thank you for all of your amazing requests and reviews! You will never really understand what it means to me. I am so appreciative of your support!

Also, I just wanted to wish our beloved Justice Jay "JJ" Ackles a belated happy birthday! She turned two yesterday on May 30! =)

Thank you all so much once again! I love you guys! Be on the look out for my new stories!

So, here's the last request from Violently Red! "Dean needs Sam to drive. And it ends with Dean falling asleep on Sam's shoulder." And how freaking beautiful and fitting is this prompt! The moment I read this request, I fell in love with it. It's so simple and adorable, and I could totally see it happening on the show. I am actually super happy that this fell as being the last chapter because I feel like I can tie this whole evolution up a bit more.

I am going to set this final one in beloved season five before things get too depressing.

Sorry for its shortness, but I wrote the prompt and didn't want any fluff this time. Sometimes, it's nice to keep and end it simply.

* * *

Violently Red (II)

* * *

_December 24, 2009_

It's the night before Christmas, and Dean is coming down with something. It's just his luck, really. Sam figures it's from constantly running around and the stress of the world literally crumbling around them. It's Apocalypse now, and they have both been too busy to worry about their mental and physical health, causing his brother to become lethargic. And, right before his eyes and the day ahead of his favorite holiday, it seems as though Dean won't make it that far.

He wishes he could find a way to stop his brother from feeling like crap rolled over by a semi truck, but Winchester luck just has a mind of its own. He remembers growing up with Dad and Dean and catching pneumonia a couple of days before Christmas. Dad had pushed him too hard with their bow hunting exercises outside, and it left him breathless and unwilling to move, even to open presents. That year, Christmas was held in their tiny apartment bedroom. Dean showered him with gifts and helped his thirteen year old self tear up the colorful wrapping paper.

But Dean is refusing to pull over at a motel, despite the chest rattling coughs and incessantly drippy nose. He sniffles and wipes a thin trail of snot on to his black jacket, which is visible to Sam's naked eye even in the dim glow of the streetlights they're passing above. He can make out that Dean's eyes are bloodshot and drooping, and he wishes he could take care of him. But his older brother is an incredibly stubborn son of a bitch, so he has to wait.

Sam quietly listens to his brother struggle and squirm, and he knows right then that he's burning up beneath the thick layers of clothing he's adorned in. He is in desperate need of medicine and some TLC, but he figures that they haven't quite reached that stage yet. Dean is a strange character when he doesn't feel well and typically won't admit defeat until he is close to collapsing or throwing up all over the place or keels over entirely.

The younger Winchester carefully fingers the presents wrapped in newspaper in his backpack, trying not to look suspicious, but he doubts that Dean has even noticed or heard the crinkling of the paper in his lap. Inside is a brand new coffee thermos because his brother always complains about how cold his java gets whilst they are on the road, and the bigger item is a brand new laptop since Dean spelled said coffee all over it.

Neither of the gifts were that expensive, but Sam was always taught that it's the thought that counts, which, of course, was his lesson from Dean. He knows with all of his heart that there are a couple of presents from his brother hidden and wrapped in his duffel bag or in the trunk of the Impala, and he also knows that Dean was planning on having an actual Christmas this time. He most likely still will, but Sam needs to get his brother off the road for the night first.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Why don't you get some rest? I can take over for a bit."

Dean coughs. "N'thanks. 'm good." His voice is scratchy and hoarse, and he sounds like he's talking straight through his nose.

"What about some meds? I think we still have NyQuil in here somewhere."

His older brother shakes his head. "'m drivin', S'm."

Oh boy. This is going to be tougher than he thought.

* * *

It's a few hours later when Dean's coughing spirals into downright barking, and he's left breathless in the driver's seat. Sam has had to jerk the wheel and drive with just his hands several times, and he's beginning to worry about how they're going to arrive at their destination on time. He wishes Dean wasn't so resilient and could actually vocalize to him that he needs help, but he knows he's going to have to enforce it to get what he wants.

"Dean," he pleads. "Pull over."

"N'way, dude. 'most there..."

Sam nods. "Yeah, I know. But I can handle driving your precious baby for a few more hours."

Dean shakes his head. "'m fine, Sam."

"Please, Dean."

"Can it, Sammy."

And he huffs and rolls his eyes.

* * *

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice is muffled and desperate by the time the younger Winchester shakes himself awake.

"Yeah?"

"Will you, um... Will you drive? Please?"

He realizes that the Impala is parked on the side of the road. And it takes him a few more seconds to acknowledge that it's snowing heavily outside and that Dean is having a hard time catching his breath, which keeps hitching in the back of his throat. Sam doesn't even bother getting out in the car in the middle of this seemingly unannounced blizzard; he and his older brother just switch places. Dean sighs contently as he leans back in the warmth from Sam's body.

But, they're barely on the road when he senses Dean moving from beside him. He wordlessly lets his head dip on to his shoulder and cuddles his cheek into his clavicle area. Sam plants a quick kiss on his damp hair and pats his knee comfortingly. Before he knows it, his big brother is snoring quietly through his muddled congestion. And Sam can't help but smile. It may be Apocalypse now, but he's going to make sure Dean still has a Christmas tomorrow.

"Merry Christmas, buddy," he whispers.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I can't believe it's over! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your support and for sticking with me for one hundred requests. You honestly will never know how much the success of this story has surprised me and how thankful I am. I hope all of you guys will follow me into my new story, which I hope to have posted by mid June at the very latest. Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and requesting! Until next time! =)


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